Adventure in Cold Blood
by Ready-made Prodigy
Summary: Sherlock Holmes solves crimes. This murder is the same but singularly different. It is the most important case he has ever embarked upon. The most notable difference, Watson is not present. He is gone and Holmes grieves the only way he knows how. COMPLETE
1. A Thought Never Considered

_Title__: Adventure in Cold Blood_

_Summary__: Sherlock Holmes solves crimes. This murder is the same but singularly different. It is the most important case he has ever embarked to bring to light. The most notable difference, Watson is not present. Not missing or on holiday, he is gone and Holmes grieves in the only way he can._

_Disclaimer__: Sherlock Holmes is technically a part of public domain now, but I would not presume upon owning such a timeless classic. In fact, I don't think ACD ever did either. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, for all intents and purposes, were living, breathing people._

_A/N__: My first serious Sherlock Holmes adventure/mystery/drama. I wrote 'On Your Other Side' to gauge the relative merits of my writing of Sherlock Holmes and it was accepted fairly well, so I continued on. This is less slash-a-delicious, only real strong friendship here. I tried to capture the voice and essence of ACD's classic mythos and hope that the result does our favorite duo justice. _

* * *

"Holmes, why must I always play the part of the victim?" Watson groused as he turned to face Lestrade and the small crowd of Yarders gathered as per the detective's instructions.

Holmes shifted to stand behind him, answering cheerily, "Because my good fellow, our victim was a woman and you are shorter than me."

"And the time before that?"

"Well, I simply make a better villain than you. Now Inspector, if you will please observe," Holmes announced as he took position one step behind Watson just over his left side, a cane swinging lightly from his right hand, "the attacker snuck up behind Miss Darby and attempted to strangle her with his walking stick." Holmes proceeded to act out his narration and caught the end of the cane with his left hand and brought it neck level to Watson, going as far as to press the rather solid length of wood hard underneath the doctor's chin.

"Blast it Holmes. Don't you think this a little," Watson grunted as the cane came close to crushing his larynx, "excessive?"

"Not at all, my dear fellow. How else am I to educate those who claim to share my profession? You can hardly expect them to be able to follow my deductions through vocalization alone. Besides, my flare for the dramatic will not be stifled." Holmes went on to continue his account of the night in question, "At this point, the attacker began inching backward into the cover of the hedges." Holmes, still in character, began dragging Watson back towards the garden's outermost hedges. "Fortunately, the lady was able to get one hand underneath the cane in order to stave off strangulation."

Watson shoved one hand between the cane and his neck, exerting enough pressure to keep it a good six inches from him.

"Watson, Miss Darby would not have been able to muster up the strength for that kind of resistance," Holmes chastised.

Watson sighed and eased his grip to allow the cane to rest lightly upon his neck.

"It was then that Mrs. Darby screamed for help."

Watson remained adamantly silent.

"Stifling, Watson, stifling!" Holmes hissed at the uncooperative doctor's ear.

Watson turned his eyes skyward as if praying for patience before turning his head towards the house and yelled in a very noncommittal fashion, "Help, I am being attacked. It is exceedingly uncomfortable. Help."

"Never think to trade your pen for theatre, my good man," Holmes whispered and then raising his voice once again, he said, "Realizing that he was at risk to being caught, the perpetrator then shoved the lady," Holmes, a little too enthusiastically in Watson's opinion, released Watson from his choke hold and pushed him on the shoulders and propelling him with great force to the garden floor, "to the ground in order to hastily check her pockets for the moonstone. What he had not realized was that Miss Darby had been holding the gemstone in her hand, which is incidentally why she did not stave off the attack with two hands instead of one. Thus, when she fell to the floor she had most likely lost her grip on it." Stepping over Watson's indulgently prostrate body, he lead off a little ways into the nearby rose bushes and leafy fronds. "Taking into account the force of which her hand had struck the ground, the estimated weight of the gemstone, wind, and buoyancy of the earth due to the recent rains, I deduced that the trajectory of the moonstone would have brought it to rest right," he plucked his hand dramatically from one of the bushes, "here."

And like a magician, the shining gemstone appeared in his hand. The collected men gasped as surely as they would for any master performer. A few even clapped.

Lestrade shook his head both in wonderment and exasperation. "And the perpetrator, Mr. Holmes? I am sure you have that mystery solved as well?"

"Yes indeed. Although Miss Darby's young beau seems to be the likely suspect, a small inquiry into the new groom the Darby's hired would be most beneficial," Holmes said, hesitating only a moment before handing the stone over to Lestrade.

The inspector tipped his hat to him in thanks and went on his way to presumably find a nervous groom. Meanwhile, Watson was helped to his feet by Lestrade's sergeant, casually brushing off his trousers and checking his elbows for grass stains. He exchanged some words with the enthusiastic young man. Holmes observed that Watson's arms, though initially crossed about his chest, had gradually fallen loosely to his sides, but had not ventured towards encasing themselves in his trouser pockets. Well versed with his friend's mannerisms and as he himself was expert on the subject of body language, normally employed by his interrogation of potential criminals, Holmes could conclude with a fair amount of confidence that Watson had agreed on some proposal made by the sergeant. He could only hope it had nothing to do with an encore performance at a children's function.

Watson soon turned away from the sergeant, obviously in good spirits and made his way over to Holmes, the two of them walking side by side as they traversed the length of the estate.

"Did you intend to add that gem to your ever growing museum or were you contemplating the price of seats at St. James' concert hall?" Watson queried cheerfully.

"Oh no, this case wasn't even half as interesting as the one about the Blue Carbuncle seeing as the height of my abilities was used to predict how far a stone could bounce into a bush," Holmes lamented as they made their way back to the front of the house where their cab was waiting. "What is this about St. James?"

"A string quartet is performing this Sunday from Vienna, or so I have heard. I was merely jesting, implying that perhaps you would have sold the gem to go and see them. The violinist has been praised as exceptionally talented in his musicality and I do know how much you delight in upending false rumors," Watson replied.

By this time they had already entered the cab and were on their way towards Baker's Street.

Holmes snorted at this description of himself, but tilted his head ever so slightly in consideration at the mention of the performance. "I suppose we will have to go and see it then."

Watson blushed a little. "I have not the funds at the moment and I don't suppose Scotland Yard has taken to paying you for your consultations on their cases, have they?

Holmes shrugged. "In some capacity that could be considered true. Do you remember that body they called me in to examine earlier this week?"

"Yes," Watson said, a little suspiciously.

"The man—or more accurately, the corpse had quite a few banknotes in its wallet."

"Holmes!" Watson exclaimed reproachfully.

"He is dead. He is no longer in need of it and he was certainly rich enough for his family not to miss the amount in his pockets. It is better served as funds for our concert seats. You will join me this Sunday, then?"

"Very well, if only to honor the fellow's…charity," Watson finished, trying and failing to keep from smiling.

Holmes returned the smile, although it had a much more waspish look to it. "I do believe I am slowly corrupting you, Watson."

Watson rolled his eyes as the stepped out of the carriage and towards their familiar apartments of 221B. "Well, as you said my dear Holmes, you do make the better villain."

Holmes laughed and they went to retire in the sitting room. Watson went immediately to his desk to work on some of his writings while Holmes took up his pipe and tobacco slipper by the fire, not in little part to sulk over the case's unsatisfactory end. They fell into a habitual companionable silence, each to their own thoughts as the afternoon dragged on lazily, the sounds of London drifting through the sitting room window. It was not too long before Watson simply could not go on with his writings, unable to ignore the clamorous attentions demanded by his wounded shoulder. He let out a breath of frustration at the incessant ache it caused.

Holmes noticed it at once, inquisitive and piercing eyes locked on Watson's person as he abandoned his desk and sank into his chair by the fire.

"I hope my handling of you today did not aggravate your injury," he commented, easily able to ascertain the reason to Watson's problems.

"No, not at all. In fact you were quite mindful of me in reducing the pressure dealt to my shoulder on the fall. I thank you for that consideration. At any rate, it was a worthwhile pursuit in order to see all of those men gasp in surprise like schoolboys at the conclusion of your reenactment."

"Yes," Holmes said a little sourly, "one would think that my powers of science and deduction were mere parlor tricks."

Watson smiled. Some days there was no pleasing that man. "Speaking of which Holmes, some of those men invited us to the Highgate Gentlemen's Club in order to celebrate today's successful partnership between the great Sherlock Holmes and Scotland Yard."

"Gods, why they would think I would enjoy such a frivolous activity, I have no idea."

"It's a sign of goodwill Holmes. They do allow you a generous amount of clearance in many of their cases."

"Bah, social gatherings are little more than infantile attempts at achieving civilized forms of what savages do when they gather round in the jungle and dance. They could at least make it interesting and be rid of the inane chatter. I abhor the social niceties that have made people dull in their conversations."

Watson chuckled fondly at his friend's usual griping. "I suppose I will have to go for the both of us then."

"Not to say I am not grateful, but how can you stand it, man?"

Watson smiled wanly. "I am very well adjusted to suffering through abnormally difficult circumstances."

"Catching murderers is much more gratifying than boorish after dinner conversations. You won't be joining me for dinner then?"

"No. Hopefully they will serve a meal there. I am not sure if by celebrations they meant a nice evening or trying to clean me out playing cards all night."

"Would you like to borrow some money? You said your funds are low."

"Certainly not," Watson stated indignantly, "Besides, if I do not spend perhaps they will let me retire early."

"If your shoulder is bothering you that should outrank keeping up relations with our fellow crime investigators," Holmes stated emphatically. Watson was ever the gentleman and far too humbled about his own person to deny the calls of gentility that he was often requested to perform. It rather irked Holmes that Watson viewed himself in this manner, knowing that in part, he was responsible for Watson's dismissal of himself and from time to time tried to wean him of it. Watson's pride on the other hand and stubbornness, he could do little about.

Watson waved off his statement. "I am well enough for this. I shall send a wire if I do decide to stay the night."

They talked on other things, Watson tactfully not returning to the subject of the outing or insisting Holmes accompany him. He, unlike s many others before him, seemed to understand that Holmes did not protest simply to be difficult or because of some misguided distaste for social gatherings, but because Holmes was truly a man of solitude, whose own machinations and self-enlightenment were more important than the interpersonal relationships formed by the average man. Yet for all his protest, Holmes made only one notable exception and that was in the case of Watson himself. Holmes found that the routines he otherwise found undesirable came easily enough in the case of Watson. In fact, one could observe that the two of them lived a life of perfect domesticity. Although to be fair, they certainly didn't lead the domestic life of convention. For them it was more than ordinary to spend their mornings with perfect strangers to eagerly solve their problems, to skip their lunches perusing dead bodies, and passing their evenings hunting down villains in the belly of London. What was normal for them was extraordinary for anyone else. It was a life they shared.

Incidentally they took a cab together with Watson being dropped off at the club and Holmes proceeding to St. James to acquire their tickets for the Sunday performance and to make his rounds amongst his various contacts within the area. He certainly could not live off of grave robbing alone, after all. They had said their goodbyes to each other with perfunctorily statements and gestures, performed with the minimal affection needed to convey to someone they would be seeing in a relatively short time anyway.

It was all very ordinary and well within even society's standards to suggest that anything was beyond the norm.

Holmes returned to Baker's Street well into the night. Watson had not returned and it was still too early to expect a note, thus Holmes attended to his wash and returned into his room, feeling that the sitting room was no longer a place for solitary rumination. It spoke too much of warmth and company, but here, surrounded by the faces of many a foul criminal he could properly turn his mind inward to the many conundrums of London's festering crime. He fell asleep slumped against the headboard pondering whether a monograph on the science of soliciting information from severely pissed bar patrons would be embraced by the scientific community.

* * *

He woke up early the next morning, stretching long nimble limbs and attempted to work the stiffness out of his neck. Upon entering the sitting room he quickly deduced that Watson neither returned late last night nor yet that morning. If he had returned last night his purse would have been left on the side table to the left of his armchair. If he had returned that morning his medical bag would have been moved in order to make his preparations for his surgery at St. Bart's. It was a simple enough deduction when one has lived with another for the better part of seven years. All these things Holmes noticed with little more effort than one takes to determine it was day.

Sure enough, along with breakfast Mrs. Hudson also arrived bearing two identical crisp white envelopes stamped with Highgate's personal crest. He opened the first to reveal the missive inside scrawled with Watson's fastidiously neat hand.

_Decided to stay the night. One man has taken ill and was obliged to help. Will return tomorrow morning._

_-J. Watson_

Having deduced as much, he read the note with little interest. He had been about to debate whether or not to open the second missive when Mrs. Hudson addressed him politely about going out to the market to replenish their various produce and needs.

"I may take more time than usual," she continued warningly, "There's been some ghastly accident early this morning and you know people's susceptibility to abandon their businesses in order to get in on a bit of gossip."

"Yes, quite so. I will not begrudge you your time when it is being equally wasted by other people's nonsense. I am not expecting anyone to come and call this afternoon, but I am willing to take care of it if you purchase some leeks to go with tonight's dinner."

Mrs. Hudson smiled and left the sitting room, later to be mirrored by her exit out of the house as indicative of the sound of the front door being opened and then shut again. Holmes, for his part, took his breakfast, little more than indulging on some toast and margarine. Any other day he would have been inclined to simply lounge about in his dressing gown, but without Watson or anything to occupy his mind, he found little point and simply dressed himself for the day, deciding to perhaps consult his indexes on the gang activity that his various contacts had hinted to the night before.

It had crept towards ten o'clock that morn when his research was interrupted by knocking at the front door.

Already entrenched in a mess of his now disarranged papers, Holmes yelled, "Come in!"

It was a visitor obviously, but the unhesitant steps upon the stairs pointed towards an acquaintance. The sounds of the step against the replaced plank of the seventh stair indicated a man of smaller stature wearing a specifically tailored shoe that was durable yet had a formal air, the type usually worn by a police officer. By the familiar cadence of the gait and the soft mutterings, Holmes accumulated all the necessary data in order to infer the identity of the caller, who had paused just outside the half open sitting room door.

"Inspector Lestrade," Holmes announced, no doubt a moment before the person in question had a chance to knock. "Please, enter."

Just as he predicted, it was inspector Lestrade who entered, standing just within the doorway of the sitting room, a plain, nondescript brown box tucked beneath his arm and his hat drooping limply in his hand. He seemed uncharacteristically hesitant, prompting Holmes to turn his full attention to the shorter man, attempting to gauge the reason for the sudden reticence.

"A pleasure to see you as always, Inspector. I trust your morning has been productive?"

Lestrade grunted, shifting the box to where his hand could touch the bottom. Holmes noticed this at once and could not stop himself from commenting on it.

"Inspector, doubtlessly you have found something worthy enough to be brought to my attention. May I inquire as to what a box containing a pocket watch, a leather bound journal, a broken fountain pen, one or perhaps two handkerchiefs, four crowns, and a sovereign have to do with my help to you?"

The Inspector was visibly startled by this simple estimation, but was interrupted in his predictable inquiry into how Holmes had known such a thing when a young man appeared at his shoulder, shuffling past him, somewhat rudely, into the sitting room.

"Mr. Holmes, I have your tickets. I would like to extend you thanks on the behalf of St. James for your purchase as well as from the Vienna String Quartet for your patronage. We all hope that you will enjoy the performance." The young man bowed and presented the tickets from his breast pocket.

Holmes jumped to his feet in order to receive them. "Ah, excellent! You see Inspector, the Doctor and I intended to celebrate our success in your thievery case, which was dreadfully dull and Watson suggested this alternative as a cosolation. I do hope that your box holds a better opportunity for mystery—"

"Mr. Holmes," Lestrade attempted to cut in, but Holmes' good humor, combined with his preoccupation with sending the boy off with a shilling and flitting about the room to place the tickets on the mantle place did not allow for the Inspector to get a word in edgewise.

"You, of course are wondering how I made such an assessment. Most of it was an inference based on the sound each individual item made as they struck against each other when you moved the box. The broken fountain pen I deduced from the blackened stain in the left-hand corner, indicating the ink had leaked from the pen in order to soak through the cardboard—"

"Mr. Holmes," Lestrade attempted once more, this time with a hint of frustration, but was once again overridden.

"Put together, these items amount to the basic possessions generally found on a man's person. It would be fair to assume—"

"Holmes!" Lestrade interjected, his shout explosive enough to be heard practically on the street below.

Holmes fell silent immediately, a peeved frown adorning his features as to what had caused such a dramatic interruption.

Lestrade looked weary and when he next spoke, his voice was infinitely softer, almost pleading, "Holmes, if you would just listen to me for a moment, I will explain everything to you."

Holmes nodded curtly and indicated for him to take a seat, while he himself sat in his armchair. "I apologize, Inspector. Please, do continue."

Lestrade sat gingerly upon the settee, bringing the box automatically to sit in his lap. He briefly looked down into its contents before speaking, seeming to choose his words with care. "You are, perhaps aware that an accident occurred late last night?"

Holmes nodded again. "Yes, I am aware. My landlady said as much earlier this morning."

"There was a fire." For a moment, Lestrade's eyes stared forcefully into his own. "It was Highgate."

Holmes' entire body froze. For the span of a single heartbeat, Holmes became a perfect statue, etched against the background of a living sitting room, a still life.

"I—" Lestrade began, but Holmes cut him off violently with a downward stroke of his hand.

"Pray don't continue Lestrade. It takes no genius to reason out what happened," Holmes said, bitingly, "You say there was a fire yet you bare no traces of it. There is no ash or soot upon your clothes or skin, meaning that you had absolutely nothing to do with it and yet here you are. The only reason you, having no bearing on the incident, would be called to announce its occurrence would be that as the function of a friend," here Holmes' voice cracked, but he went doggedly on, his angry tone slowly decimating into the sounds of a wounded animal, "After all, there are very little reasons why someone would be delivering what amounts to the personal possessions a man carries in his pockets. A dullard could figure it out."

"Holmes—"

"Don't speak!" Holmes spat, launching himself from the armchair and bracing his arms against the mantelpiece, staring hard into the unlit hearth.

Lestrade sighed, but went on determinably. "Holmes, I daresay however much you do not want to hear it, you must. Last night, sometime around two and three o'clock in the morning, the Highgate Gentleman's Club caught fire, burning nearly all of the building. There were at least fourteen people in the building last night, including Dr. Watson. We found his body in one of the main rooms. He could have been trapped by the fire or passed out from the smoke. Knowing the Doctor as I do, I bet he had been caught trying to save someone else," Lestrade said wryly.

"I assume his body was burned beyond recognition," Holmes said quietly.

Lestrade dropped his gaze. "Yes, it was little more than bones and cinders. The room he was staying in had been one of those that had been spared. These items were discovered in the bedside drawer. I'm sorry, old fellow."

With some effort, Holmes detached himself from the mantle and spun around to face the seated man. Lestrade gently held the box in silent offering. Slowly, timidly, Holmes took the box and balanced it on his knees as he sunk into the armchair. His hand automatically drifted towards the familiar pocket watch, skirting furtively over the leather cover of the journal containing dozens of case notes and story drafts. His fingertips brushed the closed lid, but he could not bring himself to take it. Holmes stared intensely into the box as if he could find his friend inside it.

Watson was dead. It was impossible.

Lestrade cleared his throat, unable to bear the suffocating silence. "I have alerted Watson's lawyer. He will be here to see you later to enact his will. I would like to offer my sincere—Mr. Holmes!"

Holmes had bounded up from his seat once more and snatched the unopened missive and tore frantically at the envelope. When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be truth. It was impossible for Watson to be killed by something as pedestrian as an accidental fire, therefore…

Something fell out of the folded note and into Holmes' hand. It was a single, previously lit match.

_Our regards,_

_The Gents at Night Side_

When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be truth. Watson could not have been killed by a mere fire. He was murdered, but Holmes, the note shaking in his hand while the other closed into a fist around the blackened match, realized it didn't make a damn difference. The note hadn't changed anything.

His only friend was dead.

The crushing grief that threatened to overwhelm him was circumvented by one thought and one thought alone.

Watson had been taken from him.

There was a crime to be solved and like so many times before, Holmes the man was replaced by a machine, a machine hell bent on bringing to justice to the men who committed this murder.

"Inspector Lestrade, could you please tell me the exact details of the events of yesterday evening at the Highgate Gentlemen's Club?" Holmes asked, his voice the consistency of cold steel and something deep and instinctual in Lestrade balked at the sound of it.

The game was afoot.

* * *

_A/N__: Don't worry, strained emotionality, angst, and general soppiness will eventually occur, all in true Sherlockian fashion, I assure you. "Night Side", although I inexplicably made it into a Victorian gang is a reference to The Night Side of London by J. Ewing in 1858, which was a critique on crime in the supposedly upright Victorian society. The Highgate Gentlemen's Club is either an unlisted club in modern London or a figment of fiction created for the episode 'Yanks in the UK' of Bones (Fox). I researched, but nothing really struck my fancy for use, so I used the only GC I knew. _

_The muse has been kind, obviously feeding off my vacation time here in Florida with my balcony overlooking the ocean, pretty sunrises, and AC currently blasting at 60 degrees, so hopefully there will be another chapter by next Friday. Life's a rummy thing and all that. _


	2. The Last Nail in the Coffin

"Holmes, why—?"

"Here," Holmes thrust the paper at Lestrade, "read this." No sooner had he done so when he lit his pipe and began pacing furiously about the room, trails of smoke following after him like the smoke clouds out of a fast moving train.

"'Our regards,'" Lestrade repeated thoughtfully, "Nightside. Are they—?"

"Yes, the notorious Nightside gang known for making petty crime into statements. They are too old and too cunning to be one of the youth street gangs, but not involved enough to break into the larger circles of organized crime. They pick pocketed the Count and Countess at a royal function under the nose of half of London's entire police force and now they have turned property damage into premeditated murder."

Lestrade sighed as he watched Holmes' progress about the room. He knew better than to expect tears from the man, but he had thought that out of all the things in the world that could have possibly shown the human heart of Sherlock Holmes, it would have been the death of John Watson. But instead the man seemed to be going on as he always did when presented a case. Lestrade wanted to be angry. Genius detective or not, the death of such a loyal and devoted friend should have warranted some sort of emotional response. Watson _deserved_ to be missed, to be grieved for. But the anger was only half-formed because he had not missed the searching look Holmes had bestowed on the contents of that box or failed to recognize the mad gleam in his eyes as he considered—nay, _decided_ that he would see this case to the very end.

Lestrade also remembered the steel that had overtaken the detective's voice after perusing the letter's contents and he speculated grimly as to exactly what end Mr. Holmes would see it through.

The Inspector cleared his throat, attempting to clear his mind of the gruesome thought as well before he posed his next question, which would sound no doubt both obtuse and insensitive considering the circumstances.

"Are you quite sure of this, Mr. Holmes? The implications—"

"Implications?" Holmes sneered, "This was meant to be nothing less than an affirmation. The state of the ink and its saturation into the paper indicate that it had been penned more than eight hours ago, much too early to have awaited the official findings of the casualties or even the accident itself. It is stamped with the known Nightside insignia, one I have already cross referenced with another that I have in my possession. The match has minute traces of the brick that was specifically used in the construction of Highgate, which is shared by only half a dozen other buildings in London contracted by the same architecture firm. It also bears the faint scent of kerosene, which was most likely used to quickly spread the fire. And the most important detail of all," Holmes continued, eyes shining with a strange light, "the letter was sent to _me_. If they had merely wanted to announce their involvement in the affair they would have sent it to the police, but instead their regards were directed to me, therefore they wished for their actions to be explicitly noted by myself. After all, where is the statement with the mere burning of a public building?"

"And where," Lestrade cursed himself thrice over for the words he was forced to speak, "is the statement in killing a general practitioner without a practice of his own, a title, or wealth to speak of?"

He saw the anger suffuse across the taller man's face, but none of it touched his voice or words when he replied, "They have committed a crime of which had personal significance to me and proved successful. When I say that besting me is statement enough it is not with undue vanity and Lestrade," his voice lowering to a menacing growl that rendered the otherwise polite words into a hardly veiled threat, "I would appreciate if you would not speak of Watson in that fashion again and _never_ in my presence."

Lestrade dropped his gaze. "Any other time I would never have suggested that the doctor was anything other than courageous and possessing great strength as well as compassion, whose aid was both necessary and extremely valuable to the police force or anyone else he happened upon, but you must understand my reasons for asking, man," the Inspector said imploringly. "You said yourself that this case had personal significance to you. You are a brilliant man Holmes, but your judgment could have been compromised due to your emotional attachment with Doctor Watson. It is not an uncommon occurrence in the force or anyone else amidst the grief of a loved one. It is standard procedure."

"You need not bother. I am not an impassioned fool. Logic is the very basis of my nature. That does not change and believe me when I say that it makes this all the more difficult rather than easier," Holmes said, his previously impassioned voice becoming toneless.

Lestrade then knew the full extent of the grief the other man felt. What is more horrible than knowing with absolute certainty that your friend is dead? A heart can be tricked. It can be told there was still a chance it could not be true, told that he could still be found hurt, but alive, lying in a hospital somewhere, that someone else had made a mistake. A heart can be soothed, knowing that they have gone to a better place or that time will eventually erase the pain of loss, but Holmes was a brain and it could not be tricked or soothed. Holmes of course could postulate in every way his friend could have survived, but with each piece of evidence he was forced to concede to the previously reached conclusion. A brain could not accept anything but what logic could confirm. In everything he saw, Holmes could see the death of his friend.

A heart laments a friendship, but a brain grieves for the friend and whereas a friendship can live on, the man will always remain lost. Holmes would always be a brain and the pain would last forever.

Lestrade was nearly overwhelmed by the sheer anguish of the mere thought of it.

"I'm sorry," Lestrade said simply, for several things and especially one.

Holmes nodded in acknowledgement. "If my logic has proven sound, perhaps you will now fill me in on the pertinent details of this case. I would be exceedingly grateful."

Lestrade had not the heart to deny the man, despite his concerns.

"As you had guessed earlier," Lestrade began, Holmes scoffing at the offending word, "I had nothing to do with the fire and although I had been among the officers to have gone to Highgate last evening to celebrate, I had only stayed a little while, leaving before eight. However, I will be more than happy to give you the names of those who were present throughout the night and willing to send some of them here to Baker's Street to be interviewed. In the meantime I can tell you what was on the official report. Bear in mind that I did endeavor to research the matter as thoroughly as I was able."

"I thank you for your considerations," Holmes said, although sounding just a tad impatient.

The Inspector felt somewhat heartened by the familiar behavior and went on, occasionally referring to the notes scrawled on his notepad. "Doctor Watson arrived at half past six and dined with the other officers in the main dining hall. Afterwards he played cards where he evidently hit a regrettable losing streak and left the tables around nine o'clock and retreated to one of the smoking rooms to talk awhile. He had been planning to leave around ten when one of the staff members asked around requesting a doctor. Apparently a doorman was having gastrointestinal problems and was too ill to work. Watson offered his services and planned to stay at the club in order to determine whether than man's illness was due to a virus or serious infection in which case he would probably be needed to be transferred to a hospital. Although Watson was given a room, he decided to stay with the sick man, a Mr. Collins."

Holmes eyes flashed. "He was alone with this man the whole night?"

"Yes, but Mr. Collins was one of the people severely injured in the fire. He is in critical condition and the doctors say he will probably die from infection. I doubt he could be the mastermind to the whole plan and be injured as a result."

"And the staff, you recognized all of them? There was no one new?"

Lestrade shook his head. "No one that I saw."

Holmes exhaled a steady stream of smoke. "Where was the body found?"

"One of the sitting rooms. He had only to cross the hall in order to find an exit, but by that time the fire could have been simply too much. It had spread so fast."

"What had been the initial findings for cause?"

The Inspector rubbed the palm of his hand against his forehead. "We thought it was an accident and most of the building had burned down. There was hardly anything left. We couldn't—" he strangled on the words.

Holmes flicked his hand dismissively, like he had been expecting the answer. "I will make my own investigation on the place. What of the body, are you certain it belongs to the Doctor?"

Lestrade swallowed. "The coroner's estimation of the height and weight of the remains are congruent with a man the same size and shape of Doctor Watson. There was not enough of the face or fingers to confirm identity that way, but with injuries as extensive as the Doctor sustained during the campaign in Maiwand were as unmistakable as a fingerprint. The bones of the shoulder especially showed signs of previously healed damage. The coroner informed me that at one time the scapula must have splintered, leaving hairline fractures in the surrounding bones and joints and that receiving a bone injury of that nature in adulthood would have lead to a decrease in strength and mobility despite healing. This," Lestrade withdrew a small, brass snuffbox from his pocket, "was extracted from what was left of his leg. The coroner found it in his right femoral rectal muscle."

Holmes smiled, but there was very little mirth in it. "I believe you meant the rectus femoris."

Lestrade had wanted to say something in his defense, but fell silent as Holmes took the snuffbox from his hand and removed the tarnished lid. With haunting grace, Holmes' thumb and forefinger probed its contents and slowly withdrew a jezail bullet, glinting dully in the afternoon sun filtering through the windows. Holmes' face fell and Lestrade mused that there must have been a heart somewhere in that clockwork body if he could feel hope's spluttering death as keenly as his face expressed.

Holmes, for his part, allowed himself to wallow in the bitter irony that this bullet, in this moment had accomplished what it had failed to do all those years ago in the Afghan plains and killed John Watson once and for all. He studied the item with quiet contemplation, debating internally on what exactly he should do with it. For some time he toyed with the idea that he should keep it in his pocket, but dismissed it as impractical. With his lifestyle, sooner or later he would forget it as he stripped off his waistcoat to pursue a villain or it would slip out when examining footprints and be left behind, nestled in the grass and he couldn't bear the thought of losing such a singular item because of his neglectful nature and disregard for material objects. The mantelpiece was out of the question. He didn't want it there, didn't want to see it at all times of the day or night. He thought about placing it somewhere in Watson's room, but felt such an act was fraught with idiotic sentiment. Watson no longer lived here and the bullet was not his anymore, it belonged to him.

Holmes strode purposefully to his desk drawer, keys magically appearing in his hand and making its way into the lock. With precise movements he turned the key and opened the drawer, placing the bullet somewhere between the Blue Carbuncle and the leather photo jacket that contained the picture of the only woman he had come to respect. These articles and some few others were the start of his illustrious museum. This bullet more than anything else in Watson's possession, belonged there because even though it had wounded the man, pained him, forced him to limp, it was that bullet that had brought John Watson to Baker Street and into Holmes' previously singular life. The bullet no longer functioned in its previous capacity while lodged in the leg of its host, therefore it only fulfilled as one part of what had made John Watson his friend, meaning it belonged to him and belonged in his museum.

With this thought firmly ensconced within his rational mind he replaced the lid of the snuffbox and handed it back to Lestrade.

"It does not belong to you, but a man who shoots with his right hand, which is fairly small in comparison to his wrists, has recently been to the seaside, and on most days keeps his wedding ring inside the box along with his Braced brand powdered tobacco," Holmes announced without flourish.

"Yes, it is Sergeant Berkley's. His desk was close to mine and I thought you would appreciate me to not just hand the thing to you like a copper halfpenny."

"Indeed, you are right."

That was as close to a 'thank you' as Lestrade would ever receive, so he stood up from his chair and collected his hat, firmly resolved on bringing up the last and final issue. "What will you do now Mr. Holmes?"

"I will investigate the case and bring these men to justice," Holmes shrugged, "the usual fare."

Holmes' newfound nonchalance was somewhat belied by the fact that he began loading his revolver, which he had retrieved from beneath his armchair's seat cushion as well as checking the chambers of Watson's old service revolver.

"Perhaps you could work alongside the Yard this time," the Inspector suggested.

Holmes scoffed as he tucked his loaded revolver into his pocket and begun spinning the cylinder of Watson's purely for sport.

"No, that will not do. I work—" he began thoughtlessly, but all too soon Holmes' lip curled in a self deprecating manner, "I work alone."

Before today, his 'I' had always meant 'we' and 'alone' had meant without anyone else, but 'together' had always been implied.

Lestrade decided that eggshells be damned, it was time to be stern with the man, especially since, after a moment's consideration, the detective also placed Watson's revolver in the opposite pocket of his waistcoat for good measure.

"Listen Mr. Holmes, I know your opinion of the law and that you operate on your own set of rules and even if I think that true justice would be seek out the men responsible and enact my own retribution, such a thing is against the law and no matter how much I should like to, I cannot simply turn a blind eye to whatever it is you plan to do."

"Torture, murder, revenge?" Holmes listed coldly. "In all my years in this sordid business I have yet to turn to a life of unimaginative and rather pedestrian crimes."

"No, as you are not swayed by petty feelings of greed and ambition you have had no reason to do so," Lestrade agreed tightly, "but now you have one."

"Yes, I do."

"Holmes, please," Lestrade said gruffly, "I would not ever want to see you in jail, not for this."

"Now of that, Inspector Lestrade," he paused, his gaze unnervingly blank, "you have nothing to fear."

Lestrade suppressed a shudder, Holmes' assurance having given the wholly opposite effect. He turned his back on the detective and made his way to the door. Behind him he could hear the detective rifling through his many index cards and case files. With his hand resting on the door knob, Lestrade looked back once more, watching the other man scattering papers with reckless abandon.

"Mr. Holmes, Watson's lawyer, Mr. Ellis, will be here to meet you at six o'clock."

"No, I am far too busy Lestrade. I plan to make inquiries among several of my contacts tonight. Perhaps in a few days," Holmes muttered distractedly as he flipped through one of his date books.

Emotionally drained and severely past his limits, Lestrade barked, "Too busy to listen to your friend's last will and testament?! You will be here at six o'clock, goddamn you or I will forbid any officer to so much as speak two words with you. Good day!"

With that the stocky man exited the room in a huff, tromping down the stairs like an angry water buffalo. Holmes stared after him bemusedly. He had apparently put the Inspector through quite an ordeal. In fact, this had been the longest period of time the two of them had ever spent in each other's company while in conversation. His presence had always been a trying one and Lestrade was certainly not a saint nor was he Watson. Indeed, no one was like Watson.

Clearing away his maudlin thoughts, Holmes, realizing he did not have his watch, impulsively reached into the fateful box and drew out Watson's. It was fast approaching one, meaning he had only five hours of meaningful time in order to make a thorough inspection of the scene of the crime. Then he had to be here and listen to the tediously indolent words of that dratted lawyer.

For a moment, under not a single eye and without a living witness, Holmes' shoulders sagged and his head bowed.

"Oh Watson," Holmes whispered, "I wish…"

Instead of finishing the sentence Holmes straightened, gathered a few things from his chemistry table and left Baker's Street for Gillingham, determined and his face a careful mask of stoic composure. The rooms he left behind, as much as rooms were able, wept at the unfettered emotion that echoed unfinished inside its walls, never to be seen or heard by the public eye. These rooms had kept many secrets and it kept this one as well, holding its master's heart in the privacy of his home, but now there was no one to share it with. The only other person to share these rooms was gone, but not enough because his presence still permeated the room. It was far too early to be erased.

From his things, to the traces of life he left behind, they all whispered back, "I know Holmes, I know."

* * *

The public records office had provided him with the original building schematics for Highgate with little fuss. There were distinct advantages to being known outside the criminal circles. Holmes tried not to think about who he had to thank for that or the number of times he had complained about it.

For the first time in his life, Holmes regretted the amount of times he had brought Watson on a case with him. As often as it was, he now found it exceedingly difficult not to notice Watson's absence. The cab was too large, forcing him to bump about uncomfortably in the seat rather than be squashed, yet suitably anchored by Watson sitting next to him. The weather looked severely understated and dull—though it was a perfectly agreeable summer's day—without Watson to point out how lovely the sky looked and how fresh the air was in that intolerably romantic wistfulness of his. Everything seemed to remind him of the Doctor—pens, papers, books, tweed jackets, bowler hats, the color brown, the two men who stood arm and arm on a passing sidewalk, chuckling at a private joke.

Holmes' head dropped into his shaking hands, the building plans falling to the floor of the cab. He had never imagined such a thing could hurt so badly, could feel so raw and afflicting. As the cab approached Gillingham Street however, he forced his mind to begin its systematic line of deductions and told himself that what he was doing now would be the first steps towards healing the pain. When he exited the cab, the plans were folded carefully beneath his arm and his mind was as sharp as ever.

There were still people milling about, a smattering of the Fire Brigade and Scotland Yard officers, who were mainly there to keep back the ogling crowds. Holmes paid them no notice as he began his search around the premises.

As Lestrade had described, all of the main rooms had burned down while the southernmost guest rooms had been relatively untouched. As to why, the gaping hole in the middle of the floor was indicative enough. The fire had started in the basement, which spanned beneath all of the main rooms, but none of the guest quarters. Several things at once struck Holmes as odd.

Locating the manager, who was standing off to the side watching men shift through the burnt remnants of his establishment, Holmes asked, "What was kept in the basements?"

"Oh I dunno, extra furniture, blankets, that sort of thing. The water heater was down there of course and some club records. Why?"

Holmes pursed his lips, keeping his own counsel on the matter. He took samples from the various ashes strewn about the place and was soon on his hands and knees with his magnifying glass. It must have been more than an hour when he picked himself up and made his way to the now doorless entrance to the portion of the basement where the water heater had been kept.

"You there," Holmes called to a nearby Yarder, "I require a light. If you would be most kind as to fetch me one, I would like to investigate that room."

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, I am Constable Peterson."

"Ah."

"I heard about what happened. I wanted to say I am real sorry about Dr. Watson. I have seen you two together and I thought, 'Well, that must be a real friendship there' and I do read the stories in the strand so I just knew—"

"I asked for a light, not your condolences," Holmes interrupted sharply.

"Right, right," Constable Peterson murmured as he biffed off to get what Holmes required.

After that, no one dared approach the detective as he made his way down into the charred and blackened boiler room. This was definitely where the fire had started, although the water heater looked to be in working order other than having some of its front crudely bashed in with some sort of blunt instrument. Holmes was hardly impressed. What was interesting was all the pipes that led to the room. Holmes could count at least seven that did not correctly attach to the boiler. Although he could smell the traces of kerosene in the room, he bagged samples with the intent to chemically prove the fact and proceeded into the neighboring room.

He was surprised to discover that this room had obviously carried papers in it. All the books were burnt to crumbling leaves, but why should anyone store records of any sort next to a boiler room? Satisfied with his findings, Holmes went to locate and interview the staff before preparing to make his rounds amongst his less than reputable contacts.

* * *

It was half past five when he made his way to the Steer and Stine Pub near the London Docks. He placed himself in a booth in the far corner by the fire with three mugs of beer and had scarcely waited ten minutes when a man as tall as he and twice as broad slid into the seat across from him. He was imposing and yet did not give off the feeling that he was overly large. He downed the first mug seemingly without the need to breathe and set the glass down with a thud before he leisurely began to sip at the second.

"What do you want, you festering boil."

"Do not take that tone with me, Forcas," Holmes chided, examining his nails with feigned interest. "If you did not wish to be coerced into being my informant, you should not have embezzled from your boss' personal shares. If you want to stop, it can be arranged and you will be dead by Monday and I only give you that long because your reputation is still worth something and they would try and verify my claim."

"Not many in my profession appreciate blackmail, especially from a man who claims to uphold justice."

"I solve crimes, not humanity's failings," Holmes corrected. "If you wouldn't mind I would like to return to business. My demands thus far have been both fair and discreet as well as infrequent. The bottom line is that you owe me and I expect you to deliver."

"I owe only two more favors after this."

"Done," Holmes agreed. "I have come about the recent activities of Nightside. I have confirmed beyond a doubt that the Highgate fire was not only caused by them, but two of my sources also confirmed that it was an intentional plot to kill Dr. Watson."

Forcas lit a cigarette. "Who?"

"Avery, Nix, Bailey, Weston and La Grassa."

"La Grassa?" Forcas laughed. "What do you have on that poor devil?"

"I saved his wife."

Forcas raised his eyebrow.

"From his other wife in Italy," Holmes finished. "It was purely by accident."

"Indeed," Forcas took another puff of smoke followed closely by a deep swig of beer, "I concur. The deed was premeditated and was definitely not the work of any of the higher clans or families. I also happen to know one of the newer heads of Nightside has a grudge against you. He was a hired hand some years back and you sent him and the rest of his operation to a jail cell."

Holmes nodded. "Motive, but how did they know the Doctor was going to be at Highgate? The meeting had only been planned that day."

"Informed, crooked cop most likely or someone else on another's payroll."

"It sounds as if there was a third party involved."

"It does, doesn't it?" Forcas replied cryptically. "I will tell you one thing Mr. Holmes, lots of the bosses are mighty angry. Plenty of them would have been more than happy to take a shot at you. You might not be big enough to come after them, but your interference in their operations does not encourage warm feelings."

"Envy and jealousy among organized crime? Shocking," Holmes drawled.

"Envy? Not likely, more like a professional pride. You think you are hurting now Mr. Holmes, if my guys got a hold of your friend you would have suffered a lot worse. Body parts would be sent to you every week and photographs. There would be demands even if they weren't the ultimate goal. You see in our business, when you want revenge, there's a method to it, steps. You squeeze a person until there is barely anything left, then you take that away too. What Nightside did was heavy handed."

"How very interesting. How would one go about infiltrating Nightside?"

Forcas started on Holmes' beer without asking. "You don't. They may not be family, but to be a member you need to know someone personally. They don't hire outside help either, so unless you are willing to build a year long friendship with one of the men who killed your friend, I don't see it happening."

"Would another favor covered provide me with a more favorable answer?" Holmes asked.

"There isn't one unless you would like me to kill someone, although that would be two favors."

"I will consider that offer in the future. Thank you for your services. I am grateful you do not always live up to your namesake."

"You are very amusing to talk to."

"Some would disagree, which reminds me that I am late for something."

Holmes left Forcas to his beer and cigarettes and made his way back towards Baker's Street.

* * *

Incidentally, Holmes was more than half an hour late for his meeting with Watson's lawyer. Although he was not at all eager to carry on with the proceedings, he was more than ready to bound up the stairs and face the odious ordeal head on when he was suddenly accosted by Mrs. Hudson about a third of the way up the stairs. Her eyes were watery and she had a handkerchief clutched tightly in her hand.

"There is a," she sniffed, valiantly trying to control her speech, "there's a Mr. Ellis for you Mr. Holmes. He said he is here t-to settle the m-matter."

She choked and could not go on. Holmes belatedly remembered that he had left the house without informing Mrs. Hudson about Watson. It would have been a complete shock to her to have received the official enactor of Watson's will when she had expected the man back for dinner at any moment.

"Oh Mrs. Hudson, I'm so sorry." In a rare act of compassion, Holmes took the woman in his arms, her head of rich, dark hair punctuated by the occasional grey pillowed against his chest as she was not a tall woman in any respects.

"Such a good man. He didn't deserve it," she whispered brokenly, her hands, roughened by honest labor, anchored firmly on his lapels.

"No, not many do."

"When I spoke this morning, I never thought—" she banished the statement with a small shake of her head, "Things won't ever be the same around here."

"No."

"He meant so much to you."

Unlike with all the others who had approached him thus far, Holmes didn't become angry at the woman's sentiments. Mrs. Hudson was not an avid _Strand_ reader or Scotland Yard officer who had worked with the two of them but a handful of times and then professed to know the depths of their relationship. Mrs. Hudson…Mrs. Hudson knew. She understood, saw the many times they had cared for each other's injuries and bore witness to the rare moments of affection, saw when Watson presented Holmes his first birthday gift and when Holmes purchased his first Christmas present. She knew as no one else did, making her words the precious comfort that Holmes had yet to hear all day.

"Yes he was," he agreed, his hold tightening somewhat.

"I read the letter," she said after a few moments of silence.

"Oh?" Holmes had no doubt in his mind as to which one she referred.

"You will excuse me if I don't prepare any dinner tonight. I doubt you are much inclined to eat anything and for once I will condone this behavior if it means you will catch the devils who did this all the more quickly."

Holmes chuckled. "Mrs. Hudson you are the noblest woman in my acquaintance. Do not worry, I will find them."

Her next words were said unwaveringly and deadly serious. "Will you make them regret what they have done?"

"Yes," he breathed, so quietly that only Mrs. Hudson and the devil himself could have heard it.

"Good." Mrs. Hudson pulled back, a fresh wave of tears cascading down her cheeks. "I bought leeks while I was out today," she said weakly.

Holmes graced her with a small smile. "Thank you, Martha."

She nodded and toddled off down the stairs with the grace and dignity that did not suggest she had illicit a promise that Holmes would do everything in his power to see that Watson's death was properly avenged. She certainly was a most singular woman.

Holmes entered the room with considerably more cheer than he would have previously, but it dropped by several increments when he caught sight of the man waiting for him in Watson's usual chair. He had an air of self importance that spoke from his clearly expensive pocket watch to his fastidiously clean and orderly appearance as he sipped his tea. Seeing Holmes, Mr. Ellis set down his tea cup and stood with a broad and decidedly, soppingly fake smile.

Inexplicably, Holmes took an immediate dislike to the man.

"You are the one who upset my landlady."

The lawyer blinked and dropped his proffered hand at the accusatory address. "I am Mr. Ellis. I had been unaware that your landlady was not informed of the situation."

"Then perhaps you should not have simply announced your name and purpose to someone who had obviously not been expecting you. I would have imagined more tact from someone who had been in their current occupation for over twenty-three years."

"How the deuce did you know that?" the man marveled.

"It was really a very simple—STOP!" Holmes bellowed suddenly, arresting the man's steady descent into the chair. "_Please_," Holmes said, straining to maintain a distant air of civility, "refrain from what you were about to do at once and relocate yourself to the settee."

"But surely—" the man spluttered.

"Do it or I will make you," Holmes hissed threateningly.

Mr. Ellis had the nerve to give Holmes a look of blatant disbelief as well as affront before he sat down on the settee.

"Really now Mr. Holmes, I am merely trying to make this as easy as possible for you."

"Indeed," Holmes commented dryly. "Thus far you have accomplished in upsetting my landlady, forced her to fix you tea while she was in obvious distress, and of all the furniture in the room, picked the favorite chair of my departed friend in which to sit. You really are doing a most splendid job."

"How was I to know?" Mr. Ellis snapped.

"I would have thought the black medical bag that had been previously placed upon it, bearing the stamp _'John H. Watson, MD'_ with the inscription _'Primum non nocere quod permissum haud vulnero adeo vos'_ beneath it, would have been clearly indicative of that fact, an item which you so unceremoniously discarded upon the floor," Holmes replied sharply as he reverently replaced the bag to its former position.

Holmes experienced an irrational surge of satisfaction at watching the other man flush deeply.

Mr. Ellis coughed and cleared his throat. "You seem to be awfully familiar with the Doctor's things. What does it mean?"

"It means, _'First, do no harm'_, the Latin maxim used by all in the medical profession. Added alongside it is, _'and let no harm come to you'_," Holmes forced the irony from his voice, "and I should think so as I was the one who purchased it for him."

"Yes well," Mr. Ellis cleared his throat once more, "getting back to the matter at hand. You will be happy to know Dr. Watson had no outrageous debts to settle."

"I do know, I kept his chequebook and his confidence," Holmes returned.

Mr. Ellis doggedly continued on. "Then you should also know that Dr. Watson had no family to speak of. In consequence, he left everything he owned to you. He had noted in his will that you could do whatever you pleased with them. It was quite generous of him, although a tad inconveniencing. Auctioning possessions is usually a very tedious endeavor for those involved."

Holmes stolidly ignored the man's rather careless remarks and silently considered what he had just been told. That he had inherited Watson's material possessions was not wholly unexpected. In fact, Holmes was secretly glad of Watson's distinct lack of kin or close acquaintance. As a man who noticed the slightest alteration in his environment, Holmes was very much averse to change within his immediate sphere of physical inhabitance. It bordered paranoia, considering one misplaced vase could indicate a break in, and he even became quite agitated after any of Mrs. Hudson's bouts of spring cleaning, usually spending a ridiculous amount of time returning everything to the exact way it had been before she had begun. He was grateful that he would not have to worry about strangers coming in and out of the house taking things without his knowledge only to be discovered in a panic later. The thought itself greatly disturbed him.

As for an inconvenience, it was hardly that. Watson, for all his romanticism, lived a very pragmatic lifestyle. He was not one to collect trinkets and mementoes to mark the passing years. Perhaps it had something to do with his army days, that he not clutter his living space or keep what was unnecessary or he was unwilling to carry, but Watson kept little else in personal effects than what Holmes had received in a cardboard box this morning. There was also a small trunk where he kept his army uniform and metals, a few antique daggers—his only mementos of his tours in India and Afghanistan other than the bullet currently residing in Holmes' desk and the ache he had felt on rainy days—his books, and of course his many journals containing their case notes and his florid story outlines. All those things Holmes would never dare to sell, even if the journals would fetch a fair price when the news got out. Apart from that, there was a desk, a bed, a bureau, and a chair, all things he could contemplate using himself someday, if not at present.

Somewhere along his reflection, Mr. Ellis had begun to talk again.

"His finances have been split accordingly. Most of it has gone to a distant nephew or some other relation to help fund his schooling in Edinburgh and the rest as a donation to St. Bart's. There is a small sum set aside for Mrs. Hudson, but this only encompasses his current earnings," Mr. Ellis said with a touch of dramatic build up. "Dr. Watson had also been setting aside the money he had been receiving through his wound pension for the last two years in a kind of retirement fund."

Holmes perked up at this information. Two years, the connection was obvious enough. Two years ago, Watson's writings in the _Strand_ and their continual assistance with Scotland Yard had brought enough acclaim to his consulting work as to become a steady business. By that time Watson also had a fairly good understanding with St. Bart's and with the increasing income coming from his pen, Watson would have been financially able to live off of what he was earning without the supplement of the government provided wound pension.

"In the event of his death, Dr. Watson left this money to you, Mr. Holmes. It is no fortune, granted, but it is no paltry sum either. I estimate that if you do not squander it, his half of the rent would be paid for the rest of this year and perhaps another two years after," Mr. Ellis announced, almost breathless with excitement and there was still more to come. "Dr. Watson also somehow managed to place you as a dependent so that you may receive the amount of money he would have received this year from his wound pension in cash almost straight away, like any widower or children would have received if he died unexpectedly. I had never heard of such a thing being done before outside of one's immediate family. Apparently, Dr. Watson was able to accomplish this feat with the help of a Mister," Mr. Ellis' eyes darted down to the stack of papers in his hands, flipping the pages furiously to locate the name, "a Mr. Mycroft Holmes. I suppose it pays to have friends in high places, does it not, Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes sat nonplussed upon his chair. Watson had never been a pessimist surely and yet, he had designed a decisively planned will, something that would have required him to seriously contemplate the likelihood of his imminent death and to revise it at least once a month. Holmes was the less optimistic and cautious of the two and he had never thought himself so in danger as to write such a detailed legal will. And this involvement with Mycroft? It was utterly insane.

Unbelievable as this whole affair was turning out to be, there was still more.

"Dr. Watson designated the funeral arrangements, guest list, etcetera, to be dealt with by his colleague Dr. Agar. A lieutenant Brandon will be handling the military branch of the ceremony. Dr. Watson had also arranged to be buried in a family plot in Edinburgh, so no expenses there. Dr. Watson noted that he wanted nothing more than a simple gravestone and any casket that would suffice. He seemed to be under the opinion that there was no need to fuss over flesh that was not him. The only thing you really need to worry about, Mr. Holmes, is the date of the funeral and transport of the body. If you haven't already sent it to an undertaker—"

Holmes waved the man off. "There is no need. Watson's body was too badly burned in order to retain enough flesh for the embalmers to do much work."

So lost in his own thoughts, Holmes did not notice the queasy look Mr. Ellis soon adopted. It was so very like Watson, Holmes thought exasperatedly, to take the burden of his death from everyone else. Watson had thought only of others and asked nothing for himself. There was no justice in the world and no God if such a tragedy as allowing the last decent man on Earth parish in a fire. Holmes felt thoroughly embittered by this thought. If there was an all powerful God of mercy and love as so many of those fools would insist, He would have taken the time to spare one of his saints from the designs of his sinful creations.

"The funeral will have to wait until the conclusion of this case," Holmes said with a tone of finality. Tearing his eyes from the window, Holmes addressed Mr. Ellis once more with and air of pure sufferance at prolonging the interview. "I assume Watson left a letter for me to be delivered posthumously?"

Mr. Ellis shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Uh no, I can't say there is."

Holmes' body stilled. "What?"

Mr. Ellis avoided the intense gaze bestowed upon him. "Dr. Watson left no personal letters for you or anybody else."

"Impossible," Holmes capitulated from his seat and moved straight towards Mr. Ellis, "you have over fifteen pages there."

"They are all legal, finance outlines and the like, its terms made in our offices and only dictated by Dr. Watson. There is nothing that was directly penned by him."

"But how! How could he have prepared for everything else, but not left me a letter!" Holmes exclaimed wildly.

The gaping wound in his chest became wider still.

Mr. Ellis shrank as far back into the settee as he was able. "Perhaps he did not leave anything with the firm, but left it among his personal effects. Relatives often find letters written from the deceased between the pages of books or hidden in the back of a desk drawer."

"That is illogical. Watson would never have written something of that nature without informing me where I could find it. I own to having an insatiable curiosity, but I would have never have betrayed his confidences in that manner. It would have also been impossible for Watson to hide, physically or otherwise, the existence of this letter within this house without my notice."

Mr. Ellis swallowed nervously. Holmes' words might have been calmly delivered, but every muscle in his body looked taught and ready to snap.

"As you say, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes turned his back on Mr. Ellis. "Thank you for your services Mr. Ellis. Get out."

Mr. Ellis beat a hasty retreat. The second the front door was closed, Holmes did the illogical and began to systematically tear apart the room. When he found nothing, he moved to Watson's room and every other, not allowing a single potential hiding place to go unchecked. When the search proved to be as futile as he had predicted, he donned a disguise and made his way out into the night where he could pretend to be somebody else and the thought that in the absence of a letter, Watson's last words to him had been the ones he had uttered when Holmes had dropped him off on the pavement in front of Highgate that evening.

"_Goodbye Holmes, I will see you later."_

As he stole into the night, seeking a method in which to infiltrate the ranks of Nightside, he didn't think about how Watson's last words had turned out to be a lie and that the only voice that could have comforted him was lost forever.

Holmes was not thinking about that. He was thinking about Nightside and what he would do when he found them.

* * *

_Story Notes__: Forcas is the name of the Angel of Silence. And for all those who freaked out, which amused me to no end, this is not an AU._

_A/N__: Did I say I was going to update on Friday? Haha about that…What's that, I was supposed to update last Friday. Ah, umm. Well, here it is! I hope everyone enjoyed it. Lots of information giving in this chapter and angst, a very hard combination to balance. I hope the level of emotionalism is acceptable to you readers. Please review. I really want at least one more review than I received last chapter. I mean, seriously, this chapter was long. _

_Who both hated Mr. Ellis and at the same time felt rather sorry for the poor guy? I know I did and I made him like that. _

_Thanks:__ Thank you mia83 (who shares my Christian name, BTW, although I'm a baptized Catholic empiricist atheist) and LA Suka for putting me on their Story Alert list, but shame on you for not reviewing. That's totally mean. It's like eating from someone's pantry without thanking the host. Especially you shared namesake83._

_Reviewer Responses:_

_**dragon-**__ I'm glad you noticed my flare. I strive to put something fresh and satisfying in whatever I write. Haha, another double hitter for the slash/non-slash fans huh? I love it too._

_**reflekshun- **__After this chapter the perpetrators should double fear what Holmes will do to them. I'm glad to see you went to check up on my other works. You reviewed so nicely (and frequently) in my last Holmes fic Good to see you on board._

_**KCS**__- It's always a stunning honor to get praise from you as well as illicit a panicky emotional response. In my defense it wasn't exactly like I was doing false advertising. I had plenty of foreshadowing and my summary wasn't exactly cheerful. Haha, the reason why my Holmes is so spastic is probably because of the many interpretations of him and I try to pull from them all. About those straws you were grasping, uhhh, pretty much burned them this chapter, but keep reading on. So excited you've taken interest._

_**Marty-**__ Here you go Marty, second chapter and twice as long to make up for the late update. Enjoy._

_**Savethellamas-**__ I know your pain. I actually wrote the bulk of the first chapter while traveling to Florida on that wretched five hour flight, plagued with constant paranoia of virulent diseases every time someone coughed. Sorry to have caused you distressed, but not so sorry that I wasn't thrilled to see your review. Now that your fever is over I expect more shoutouts, thank you very much. Haha, can you believe that the Watson playing the victim scene nearly didn't make it? It was a flash of inspiration on how to start this whole sad and sordid affair. Um…about Watson being dead…I can explain…_

_**Literatech-**__ I think the greatest fear of any writer attempting to remake the Holmes story is the man himself. I'm soooo gratified you think I did him justice. Yes, poor Watson and the things he does for friendship. I miss him already. Here's another chapter and I do have another story planned once this is done. I'll be in the fandom a little longer yet._

_**Pompey-**__ Another esteemed reviewer who followed me over from my previous fic and that I'm deeply honored continues to leave reviews for me. Yes, as you read in this chapter it was rather fruitless to hope the body was too burned beyond recognition for Lestrade to notice. I'm glad you liked the Holmes/Lestrade dialogue. It always struck me that a genius like Holmes just thinks too fast for the rest of us and thought it'd be funny if all he ever did while talking to Lestrade is interrupt. Keep reviewing, thanks, yay!_


	3. An Exercise in Emotion

The news got out the next day. To his credit, Watson had made the front page. Although the story was big enough to make all the major London newspapers, they all went along the same lines. The articles were something to this effect:

_Early on Wednesday, June 22__nd__, hours before dawn, the Highgate Gentleman's Club located south of Gillingham Street, burned down presumably from an accidental fire started by a broken water heater. Of the fourteen who were currently staying in the building, seven were injured, three in critical condition, and two were discovered dead. The most notable death being the one of Dr. John Watson, who had served in the 66__th__ Berkshires with the 5__th__ Northumberland Fusiliers in the Second Afghan war, but is most known today as the writer for the wildly successful and popularized detective stories published in the Strand. Dr. Watson is succeeded by the subject of his biographies and friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. There is talk of a memorial service being held in his honor and the date of his funeral has yet to be released._

Miraculously, the _Morning Post_, renowned for its receiving of very important intelligence(1), had been able to unearth the only photograph that had ever been taken of the two of them. It had been the work of some small town, country newspaper in Hertfordshire. Holmes had sensed someone tailing them all day and had accordingly led them on a merry chase ending in a back alley, where, with the two of them shrouded in a shadowy doorway, Holmes delivered a heavy blow to their pursuer with his walking stick. The poor fellow went down like a cedar struck down by lightning and just as Holmes and Watson stepped out of the shadows he snapped the photo he had been hoping to take all day. Well, perhaps not the exact picture and certainly not from the perspective of the ground after receiving a savage blow and passing out shortly after. The photograph had captured the image of a truly baffled looking Holmes, cane still slightly upraised, and Watson's expression of incredulous disbelief. So unguarded was the nature of that photo that almost anyone who looked upon it could see the conversation that took place in the openness of their faces. It went something like this:

"_That man took a photograph."_

"_Yes Holmes, he seems to be a photographer."_

"_But not a spy."_

"_No."_

"_Should we…destroy the camera?"_

"_Uh…no, I um, suppose we should let him keep it to dissuade from pressing assault charges."_

"_Ah."_

"_Yes."_

"_Let's leave."_

"_Yes, please."_

Though journalists and news reporters were diligent in their efforts to get a statement from Mr. Holmes, the elusive detective had made himself scarce the following days after the accident. Though there were quite a few representatives from the various newspapers constantly monitoring Baker's Street, no one could be sure whether the man was holed up inside or entirely absent. Twice they had seen strangers exiting from the flat. Once, a strapping young dockworker with a hearty beard and another time, a doddering old woman who had presumably been selling flowers from her wicker basket.

Some thought the man had succumbed to grief. Others, his cocaine. However, it was firmly in the minds of children everywhere, that Holmes was working tirelessly to save Watson, who was imprisoned in a hidden castle in Burma or some other far off place because to them, the articles in the paper were no different from the stories in the _Strand_ magazine and in stories the heroes could never be killed and best friends could never be parted. In stories, the hero didn't drag himself back home in the dead of night, exhausted and barely conscious with nothing to show for it. In stories, the hero didn't waver or fall into despair or frustration. In stories, the hero didn't break a man's fingers in order to gain one penny's worth of information. In stories, the hero always won, but that was fiction and Sherlock Holmes was only a man.

Holmes approached Baker's Street using the back alley and hauled himself through the kitchen window which he had bade Mrs. Hudson to leave unlocked. It was quite small, but he was a thin man and as he passed the larder with disinterest, it was very likely he would remain so. His feet dragged along the seventeen steps and his shoulders sagged with the failure of yet another day. It had been three days since the day of the fire and he had learned a great deal, but was no closer to reaching his goal than when he had started.

He abandoned his coats, which were stained from just about every foul smelling substance in London and extinguished the fire with the water from its pitcher, forcing the room to sympathize with his mood. He dropped into his armchair still dressed in his shirtsleeves and trousers and hadn't even bothered to remove his shoes. He sat in utter darkness, though it gave him no desire to sleep and the stillness failed to invoke the peace of mind he longed for. His thoughts pressed against him and the still raw emotions choked him.

He did not sleep. He could not. He had not since the night of Watson's murder. This night, like it had the past four nights, waned before his eyes. He watched the sky gradually lighten and the sun replace the moon and the night turn into day. He did not move, even when the sun had risen high and pierced through the sitting room windows. He had reached an impasse. He could do nothing. He wanted—_needed_ to do something, but there was simply nothing to be done. Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing.

"Holmes?"

Holmes blinked.

Watson frowned as he sidled into the room carrying a fully laden tea tray. "Holmes, whatever is the matter? Did you sleep last night?"

Holmes sucked in a breath, hands convulsing on the arm rests.

Watson, brows knitted with concern, quickly knelt on the floor, abandoning the tray on the coffee table. "Holmes, what's wrong?"

"You were gone," Holmes replied, barely knowing what he was saying, so occupied in keeping his eyes riveted on the face of his friend.

Watson sighed exasperatedly. "Did you not read my note? It said I would be back by morning."

Holmes wanted to yell, scream that he had not returned that morning, that his note had been followed by a second and he had read both of them thoroughly over a dozen times, but he knew that the moment he did the spell would be broken, so instead he said, "No, I did not read it. I am sorry."

Watson sighed again and stood up, going to the side table to look through the mail.

Unable to stand the sight of his friend being upset with him, Holmes said, "I missed you terribly Watson. I simply could not bear your absence."

Watson flushed as he always did when he received a complement from his friend. His face took on a considerably warmer expression and Holmes knew he was instantly forgiven.

Seeing nothing of interest in the mail, Watson began wandering about the room as if searching for something. "May I inquire as to how your case going? Have you gathered any new information on the gang that burnt down that club?"

"I have a plethora of information on Nightside. I know the location of their meetings and warehouses. I have the names of nearly half their members and exact descriptions to match. I can even tell you the state of their finances, but as to the case itself, it is going dismally."

"Must you really masquerade into the gang itself?" Watson questioned, now looking through the things on the mantelpiece. "It seems to be an unreasonable risk."

"But not an unnecessary one," Holmes stated firmly.

Watson pursed his lips and seemed ready to argue when he came across the tickets Holmes had placed there. "Oh! Are these our tickets for tonight?"

Holmes throat tightened. "Yes, they are."

"I cannot wait to see the performance." Watson placed the tickets back on the mantelpiece, glancing across its contents once again with an air of dismay, "Blast!"

"What it is it?" Holmes asked with almost an undue amount of concern.

"I can't seem to find my watch. Have you seen it?"

"No, I cannot say I have."

"Hmm, perhaps Mrs. Hudson knows where it is."

"Watson, wait!" Holmes exclaimed. He knew with confidence, in a way he could not explain, that if Watson were to leave this room, he would not be coming back and that at all costs, Holmes must keep him here. "I shall help you look for it momentarily, but first, I have a question to ask you."

Watson paused before the open doorway. "What is it, Holmes?"

"If you were to write me a letter, where would you hide it?"

"Why would I hide it at all?"

"If it was secret or private."

Watson frowned. "I don't think I have ever written something like that."

Holmes grew desperate, knowing instinctively that he was running out of time. "Yes, but if you had?"

Watson seemed to consider this for a little while. "Perhaps it would be in my room. Let us go see."

"Watson, stop!" Holmes shouted, but Watson had already stepped out of the room and just as he feared, the moment he tried to stand, he began blinking furiously from his slumped position in the armchair.

Sometime through his vigil, he had fallen asleep, his body simply shutting down from the strain and he had dreamed. It was all a dream. But then…

He glanced down at the coffee table and the tea tray that sat upon it. He felt the pot and it was still warm. He stood in an instant when he heard footsteps on the landing. Could it be?

Tobias Gregson had never seen that particular expression on a man. He had entered the room and was instantly arrested by the piercing, yet emotionless gaze of the detective. There was something more threatening and horrible about that stare than if it was filled with rage. At least you knew where it came from, a living human being filled to the brim with unbridled passions, something familiar and known, but Holmes' eyes were cold and they said nothing a fellow human being could recognize.

"Gregson." The cadence of his name sounded wrong, like Holmes had wanted to say something else entirely. Holmes sank back into the armchair and turned his face towards the window where his eyes seemed to dampen the light that fell across his profile. "Would you kindly leave my presence for a few minutes, I would like to be alone so that I may freshen up," Holmes lit a cigarette and jabbed it towards the offending china, "And take that tea tray with you before I throw it out the window."

Gregson bowed his head slightly. "Take your time Mr. Holmes."

Indignation flashed across the man's countenance. "I do not require any more time than what is necessary in order to affix a change of wardrobe. Do not presume my request meant otherwise."

"I did not. My remark was based on your appearance, not your emotional state," Gregson drawled as he bent to retrieve the tray.

"I am glad to hear it."

"I'm sure you are," Gregson replied blandly as he left the room.

He met Hopkins on the stairs, who immediately began to hover. "How is he? Is he alright? Lestrade said—"

"He isn't eating and he is acting like a stick is lodged in his arse."

Hopkins looked genuinely surprised at his assessment. Gregson sighed internally. Though they were of the same rank they were certainly different in ways of experience and age. Hopkins had only just come by his promotion and was at least fifteen years his junior. It made a considerable difference. In their line of work, one hardly ever met decent people. Hopkins was still willing to believe in humanity. Gregson had very little patience for them.

"We can return to the sitting room when we have finished this tea. Come."

When they did return, Holmes was once again his fastidiously clean and immaculate self. He was standing now, but still smoking, his eyes fixed on nothing but scrutinizing all the same as if the inner workings of his mind were transposed in the space surrounding him and he sought to tangibly place them into a working order. He greeted them in a business like manner, though with his customary amount of annoyance at them being there. It seemed perfectly ordinary but for the fact that he was not at all in normal circumstances.

Bridges, Gregson thought, were to be burned when crossed, not before. Thus, Gregson followed Holmes' example and kept his tone to a tolerably formal level.

"Lestrade informed us that you would like to talk to some of the officers who were present the night of Doctor Watson's death. We have called several times the past three days, but seemed to have missed you on every occasion."

"I have been preoccupied of late, not to mention being quite motivated to avoid many of my callers," Holmes said a little sourly.

"You won't have to worry about any further intrusions Mr. Holmes. Inspector Gregson and I have warned the journalists and reporters about harassment. It's quite horrible the way they have been bothering you about-about," Hopkins faltered a little, awkwardly seeking a way to dance around the subject, but found that there was no conceivable way to do so, "the accident and well, the Doctor's death and all." Hopkins, naïve and with the misunderstanding of youth, interpreted Holmes' silence as emotional onslaught and went on saying, "That night we were enjoying ourselves immensely, playing cards and gambling, I would have never thought such a thing could happen. Doctor Watson was losing terribly, but seemed to think it was a small sacrifice for the fine time we were having. He withdrew from our game claiming we had robbed him clean, but I had noticed a couple of crowns among his things when we searched his room. He must have a very good sense of self control to not be dominated by such a common vice."

"The Doctor has many virtues, although in this instance it was less to do with overcoming a vice and more to do with his stalwart principles." Holmes took a generous drag of smoke before tossing the nearly untouched cigarette into the fireplace. "The extra crowns and shilling were provided by me. I had slipped them into his purse while in the cab after he had said that he was low on funds. Doubtlessly, he deduced what I had done and refrained from spending money which he perceived to not belong to him."

"He did not notice while you were in the cab?" Hopkins asked.

"I am an adept pickpocket and although the goal is different the same skills can be applied."

"That was mighty generous of you," Hopkins said.

"It was hardly that as Watson has seen fit to bestow me with more money upon his death than I have ever set out to loan him."

"That was very good of him. I would expect nothing less."

Hopkins wanted to continue on with the subject, but Gregson interrupted him none too subtly by clearing his throat and giving him a clear look of warning.

"I'm not sure what information we can provide you with at this point Mr. Holmes, but we would be happy to assist."

Holmes was suddenly attentive in a way that Hopkins had been unable to arouse in the man. "No, you can help me a great deal. You must describe to me with as much detail as you can manage, the looks and mannerisms of some of the attendants working there. More specifically, all the attendants that Watson had contact with that night."

Hopkins obediently began to list the men in question, "That would be the doorman, the barman, the card dealer, perhaps the butler, Seppings, and the manager was there as well, but I don't see—"

Gregson interrupted him once again. "The doormen were not unfamiliar to me. The taller man with the square jaw and dark hair goes by the name of Jack. The other one, the one that was sick, is a half Irish fellow who is missing two of his teeth. The barman's name is Tom Mallory, an older sort of gentleman whose hair is fully grey and is thin as a whippet. The butler, Seppings, is stocky, built like a bear with a flat face. They have all been working there since the club opened."

"I am not looking for a shady character who would obviously be a hired hand. I am looking for someone well established in the system."

Hopkins still looked dismayed at this line of talk, but endeavored to continue providing what help he could. "The card dealer had ginger hair. He was young, maybe only a year or two older than I and had a scar on the back of his left hand."

"I have talked with the manager. What of the man who came to inquire after a doctor when Mr. Collins became ill?"

"Average height, pale, olive skin, round spectacles, more or less bald but for the bit lingering around his temples," Gregson replied.

Holmes' whole body snapped to attention. "His name?"

"Bryce."

Holmes' smile was exultant. "He is our man. Alexander Bryce is a member of Nightside."

"You are sure of your information?"

"Of course." Holmes once again began his stringent pacing, hands tucked tightly behind his back.

"Mr. Holmes, if you need anything or need someone to talk to," Hopkins started, but Gregson grasped his wrist to catch his attention and shook his head.

"Don't lad," he whispered quietly.

"Why?"

"He doesn't want your pity."

"I wasn't offering pity," Hopkins returned vehemently.

Gregson sighed. "He doesn't want that either. All he wants is to be able to work on this case. He needs it to keep his mind busy."

"That is hardly a beneficial way of healing."

"I know it," Gregson replied grimly, "but you do what you have to in order to get by. Why don't you go get our hats, I think we are about to leave."

Hopkins left in silence, considering the knowledge Gregson had painfully come across himself in his years on the force. Hopkins was still too new to have lost a fellow officer, a friend. The Yarders were a tough lot and Gregson had seen every form of grief. Some resigned, some threw their back into their work and became stronger, some burnt out.

"Is there anything else we can help you with Mr. Holmes?" Gregson asked.

Holmes had stopped his pacing and was looking at something on the mantelpiece. In a split second he had ripped the tickets to shreds and had cast them into the empty grate where they would be used as kindling for a future fire without so much as a twitch in his expression. Gregson watched this with a detached calm.

"No, that will be all. Thank you for your assistance Inspector."

Gregson nodded. "Good, now that we got that out of the way, I am going to say a few things to you that you doubtlessly do not want to hear. Nevertheless, I am going to say them and you are going to listen."

Holmes bestowed on him the barest lift of his noble brows.

"I know you well enough to know you are not a machine, far from it in fact," Gregson said, ignoring the thought that he probably would have left Hopkins gaping like a landed trout if he was here to hear him. "I have seen your disgust for the despicable crimes people have committed against their fellow man, your pleasure in surprising your quarries, your excitement at the prospect of mystery, your concern for your friend's safety. You _feel_ Mr. Holmes and right now you must be feeling it quite keenly, but you are obviously using your superior mind to control all those pesky emotions. I will tell you now, the frozen control you are using just to function will come back to haunt you. When you bury emotions like that, you are only making it worse, making them stronger because you are burying them alive. They don't like that and one day they will make sure you don't like it either. You need an outlet and if it can't be Watson, it will have to be someone else."

"There isn't anybody else," Holmes said bitterly.

Just then Hopkins returned, handing Gregson his hat, oblivious to the tension between the two. Gregson began to leave, but Hopkins hesitated, staring at the glowering detective.

"I uh," Hopkins shifted nervously from foot to foot and ignored the Gregson's look of impatience, "I was wondering if you had eaten today."

"Why?" asked Holmes as if truly dubious as to the purpose of said act.

"Well, Gregson and I were going to Simpsons for lunch and I was um, wondering if you would like to come along."

Gregson chuckled at Holmes' look of genuine surprise. "It seems you were wrong after all, Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, perhaps so," Holmes replied thoughtfully. "Thank you for the invitation Inspector Hopkins, but I fear I must decline. I have some work to attend to."

"Ah yes, of course," Hopkins replied awkwardly, not knowing that in his naïve way, he had reminded the detective that he was indeed not as alone as he had feared.

Gregson steered the younger man from the room, giving his shoulder a tender squeeze and murmured, "You did good, Hopkins," as he closed the door behind him.

Holmes looked about the room utterly bereft at what he should do. He should be putting all his efforts into somehow applying this new information into a cohesive strategy, but his heart was not in it. The information meant nothing after all, unless he had a way to utilize it within the confidence of the gang. There were no informants to be had, no loose ends to prey upon.

Not to mention the dream alone had filled Holmes with such crushing disappointment he hardly felt able to do anything. He had hoped that his subconscious mind would have remembered something about the whereabouts of the letter which in turn could have been a clue to finding it, but all that it had served to do was shorten the dream considerably. He needed the letter. Holmes knew if he could just have that small bit of comfort he could find the energy to bring this case to a definite close.

Holmes whisked out of Baker's Street and into the nearest cab. Thankfully, Watson had not acted alone when he set up the terms of his will.

* * *

Holmes stepped out of the cab and onto Pall Mall Street. Sunday was the only day one could find his brother outside of the Diogenes. His valet, Owens, greeted him at the door before he had a chance to knock.

"Sir?" the elderly man questioned placidly.

"I would like to see my brother, if you please."

"I am sorry to inform you, sir, that my Master is not to be disturbed presently. You may wait in the parlor if you so wish and I would be happy to provide you with refreshments until his business is concluded."

Holmes nodded gravely. "I see. Thank you, my good man. Please tell him I called."

"I shall do so. Good day, sir."

As soon as the door was closed, Holmes stalked along the side of the house and none too gently broke one of the windows with his walking stick and pried the thing open before climbing inside. He was brushing his jacket down when Owens walked into the dining room, dustpan and brush in hand.

"My Master will now see you, sir."

"How fortuitous. Thank you, Owens."

He headed upstairs to the study where his brother was ensconced between two enormous twin piles of loose leaf papers.

"I perceive you chose the third dining room window from the left. Thank you for your selection Sherlock, as it eliminates the need to determine the dimensions needed to order a replacement seeing as you broke the second window from the left the last time you decided to barge into my house," Mycroft said in way of greeting, not at all looking up from the smaller mound of paperwork directly in front of him.

"Owens said you were unavailable."

"Owens said for you to wait," Mycroft corrected.

"And as you should have realized the first time I broke into your house, I have absolutely no intention of doing so. I hardly ever intrude upon your life, the least you can do is admit me when I do come," Holmes snapped angrily.

"I will in this instance, allow your childish behavior as it has only been a mere three days since the Doctor's death. You seem to be quite out of sorts about the whole affair," Mycroft commented airily.

"Of course I am! How could I not be?"

Mycroft sniffed dismissively. "You are overwrought. Did you really think it could last forever?"

"No, but I had been expecting it to be a little longer at least!" Holmes said, the humor he had meant to inject into the statement only serving to make it sound desperate even to his ears.

"Come now, was it really worth all this? Did you perhaps think it wise to have your happiness so contingent upon another person?"

Holmes flew across the room and leaned across the desk to grab his brother firmly by the lapels. "I would have given my life for Watson!" Holmes shouted, no longer able to keep the pain from his voice. "Why not my happiness?"

He pushed his brother away from him and sat down miserably in one of the chairs facing the desk and if there was a suspicious gleam in his eyes, Mycroft kindly averted his gaze.

Holmes passed his shaking hand across his face. "If you had thought so little of the Doctor it is no small wonder how you could have spent so much time together creating provisions for me in the event of his death. Did you bully him into making it?"

"No, no, he came to me," Mycroft said softly. "I apologize for my words. They were meant to be intentionally callous. We, the both of us, tend to bottle up our emotions and I thought you could use some release. As the younger brother you were always more prone to throwing fits as a child."

"I did not," Holmes denied belligerently. The expression on his face, had he not been an adult, would have easily been identified as a pout.

"Convincing argument Sherlock, really." Mycroft began to tidy his papers, which had fallen from their orderly piles into one big mountain of foolscap. "As for the Doctor, I liked him very well."

"How? You could not have found him intellectually stimulating and as you have only worked with him once before there was hardly enough contact between the two of you for you to have been able to determine his other assets," Holmes said skeptically.

"My reasons for liking Doctor Watson are none so complex and numerous as your own, of course. In fact, the basis of my regard for him is more or less simply because he was your friend."

Holmes gazed at his brother with a questioning stare.

Mycroft sighed. "I may not care about what you do with your life, Sherlock, but that does not mean I do not wish you happiness in life. The Doctor could make you happy and it was obvious he was a pleasant and loyal sort of fellow. He came to me hoping that he could make things easy for you if something were ever to happen to him."

"But there was no letter," Holmes said miserably.

"No," Mycroft admitted. "I encouraged him to write one, but he may have been killed before he was able to commit to the task. I'm sorry Sherlock."

"I see," Holmes whispered. "If that is the case then I should be on my way and let you finish whatever you were working on."

Holmes stood up to go, but Mycroft had walked around the desk and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Wait," he said gruffly.

Holmes turned slightly and suddenly found himself engulfed in his brother's arms.

"What—?" Holmes choked, startled.

"I am initiating a hug. Be quiet."

Holmes did fall silent and feeling foolish just standing there, he rather awkwardly brought his arms up to return the embrace. As he took in the individual smells he picked up from his brother's jacket and mentally categorized them, he eventually relaxed into it and only then did Mycroft release him from his hold.

"You—" Holmes stuttered.

"Yes?" Mycroft questioned placidly.

"You…really could stand to lose some weight," Holmes blurted out unexpectedly and blushing furiously when he did so.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. Younger brothers really were the spawn of Satan. "And you really should eat more. How many meals have you skipped recently? Over a dozen by now at least."

"Only in your world could three days equate to over twelve missed meals," Holmes scoffed, though his tone was joking.

Mycroft smiled as he went to remove something from his desk drawer. "Doctor Watson may not have left you a specific letter Holmes, but he did write plenty of other things."

Mycroft passed Holmes a large leather bound novel followed by a much thinner paper backed one. Holmes stared, unblinking, fingers gently caressing the familiar title. _A Study in Scarlet_ graced the top. Setting it gently aside he held up the leather bound one, which had obviously been printed quite recently as it still bore a strong smell of ink. It was titled, _The Complete Works of Sherlock Holmes by Arthur Conan Doyle_.

"Rather presumptuous of the editor, I must say," Holmes commented tepidly as he flipped to the inside cover where the new pages crinkled loudly. It bore the same title as the cover though underneath in smaller print was, _'Original stories by John H. Watson, MD'_ followed by his year of birth and the current one which now coincided with his death.

"Yes, I asked Doctor Doyle to change that into a dedication page. This was only an advanced copy after all."

"So soon," Holmes murmured to himself.

"The sales will be phenomenal. You will receive a portion of the earnings of course. They look rather handsome in book form, don't you agree? Much more dignity and less sensationalism than when they were printed in the _Strand_," Mycroft said a little proudly.

Holmes placed them back on the desk, shaking his head. "I have read them."

"_All_ of them?" Mycroft asked pointedly. "Even if you have, this time Sherlock, read them like they were Doctor Watson's last words. For once, don't pay attention to the mystery or the logic. I guarantee that everything Watson wanted to say to you is all there, immortalized for you."

Holmes closed his eyes briefly as he tucked the books to his chest with one arm and gave Mycroft a brotherly punch on the shoulder. "Thank you."

As he turned to leave, Mycroft delivered an affectionate cuff to the back of his head. "That is for the window and the quip about my weight."

Holmes smiled faintly. "I will pay for it. I will be a rich man once this hits the shelves," he said, tapping his fingers along the book's spine. "By and by, is there any particular reason why you smell like daffodils? A lady friend perhaps?"

Mycroft's expression of distaste went unrecognized by the man who could produce a perfect rendition of it. "I have my assistant place a vase of them in my offices whenever the mood strikes me. They were mother's favorite, you know. Father would bring them to her every Friday after he returned from work."

"I have no private recollection of that," Holmes said.

"No, I suppose not," Mycroft said a little sadly.

"I keep Watson's bullet in my museum," Holmes offered. "I had not known you were prone to such sentimentality, brother mine."

"I assume such scathing retort is directed at yourself as well. You are wearing his watch."

"I—" Holmes suddenly realized that the watch in his hand bore the inscription H.W. on the back of it, though maintained a blank mask of innocence. "I was unable to locate my own."

"It is most likely on your dining table. You take it out to make sure you are not wasting time while you are eating."

Holmes spun on his heel and threw a hand carelessly over his shoulder. "_Au revoir, mon frère_."

"_À bientôt, petit frère_."

It wasn't until Holmes was safely out of the house and inside a cab on his way to Baker's Street before he gingerly rubbed at his still smarting head. "Older brothers are the spawn of Satan."

Meanwhile back in his study, Mycroft massaged his aching shoulder, at the same time looking dubiously at his waistline. He heaved a sigh. "Maybe I should take up boxing again."

* * *

Holmes arrived at Baker's Street and ignoring his case notes, he dropped the leather bound onto the side table and sprawled onto the settee with _A Study in Scarlet_. It was painful at first, reading those brief recollections of war that had filled his friend's nights with nightmares and the disillusionment he had saw so clearly in the man's eyes when they had first met. It was the description of that meeting that Holmes awaited to read with dreaded anticipation. When he did read it, for the first time he laughed.

"My god, I sound like a lunatic."

_(2)…he cried, clapping his hands, and looking as delighted as a child with a new toy._

_His eyes fairly glittered as they spoke, and he put his hand over his heart and bowed as if to some applauding crowd conjured up by his imagination._

"My dear Watson, I count myself a thousand times blessed that you were desperate enough to take your chances on the man you described."

_Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to live with. _

And Holmes was certainly relieved to hear it. The bands that constricted his chest began to loosen.

…_when I confess how much this man stimulated my curiosity, and how often I endeavored to break through the reticence which he showed on all that concerned himself._

Holmes remembered those early days between the two of them. Often, was an understatement. One would think that a man would cease to say 'Good morning' and ask 'How are you?' after being rebuffed or ignored for more than six days in a row, but Watson had continued to do so and it wasn't in the way of idle pleasantries, but a man who actually cared about the welfare of his rude and taciturn roommate. Eventually Holmes had answered him, thinking that if he appeased the man he would stop asking such infernal questions. He was quite mistaken and as a result Watson then knew that Holmes could answer, meaning he would answer after some persistence. Holmes had told him about the full details of his day ever since.

Soon he abandoned the paperback and moved on to their complete works, making away slowly through their greatest cases. _The Speckled Band_, _The Gloria Scott, The Hound of the Baskervilles_…and he realized suddenly that these stories were just as much a tribute to their friendship as it was the actual mysteries. How had he not seen it before? He supposed it must be the old adage that one didn't know what they possessed until it was gone.

It was beginning to get dark and he had nearly finished when he heard the doorbell ring and the clamber of adolescent voices filtering towards the window.

"Mr. Holmes, your boys are here to see you!" Mrs. Hudson called.

"Send them in, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you!"

He scanned the last few sentences of _The Redheaded League_ before he placed the book protectively on the shelf where the often times sticky hands of young boys could not get to it. He heard the unmistakable sounds of a troop of eager boys parading up the steps. He opened the door to the sitting room just in time to let them in.

"Good ev'nin, Mr. 'Olmes."

"'Lo Mr. 'Olmes."

"Hiya sir!"

One after another they passed until over a dozen of his Baker's Street Irregulars filled the sitting room. In fact, all of them were probably present, which was a fairly unusual occurrence.

"What is it, Wiggins?" Holmes asked, practically having to wade through the sea of boys to locate their elected leader.

"Well, Mr. 'Olmes we just wanted to offa you our um…" he stumbled over the word.

"Sad feelings?" a boy piped in helpfully.

"Sorryfulness?"

"Gondolas?"

"That's the ticket! Condolences," Wiggins finished triumphantly before his face melted into one that was glum and cheerless, "for the death of Doctor Watson." He took off his cap, which was mirrored by all the other boys in the room. "The Doctor was always so nice to us. He always came when one of us was sick or gave us an extra coin even after you'd pay us, so we thought we'd do a memorial thing for him, like they said in the paper and we was thinkin' maybe you'd like to come along, since you two was best mates and all."

The boys all nodded along gravely in agreement.

Holmes felt a stab a pain at the thought of finally acknowledging the death of his friend and if he had not been given talks by Gregson and his brother or gotten the invitation to luncheon from Hopkins or the book currently residing next to Watson's Shakespeare collection, that pain would have been enough to make him decline. As it happens, he accepted the offer.

"What did you have in mind?"

Wiggins grinned. "Well, one time when my pal David was real sick—"

"I caught the 'flu."

"'E nearly died!"

"Right," Wiggins said, easily navigating through the interruptions. "Anyways, I was real upset and to take my mind off things Doctor Watson taught me how to do this thing with a newspaper to make it into a boat where you fold it all careful like and I mean, it floats and ev'rythin'. So when David got better I taught 'im 'ow to make it."

"And I showed Lenny," David said, pointing at a younger boy who could have been his brother.

"An' I taught Mikey and Mikey taught Richard and Richard taught Percy—"

"And so on and so forth," Wiggins interjected hastily. "So in a way Doctor Watson gave this thing to all of us, so we was thinkin' we'd make our boats and float 'em on the Thames with little candles, so that Doctor can look down from 'Eaven and see that 'e did right by us."

Holmes was struck by the symbolic significance of the Irregulars' ceremony. He looked into the somber faces of little boys who had all been given a helping hand, a shoulder to cry on, an encouraging smile and the lessons that kindness taught. He thought about honor and he thought about Watson.

"Wiggins," Holmes said softly, "can you teach me how to make one?"

It turned out that the Irregulars had ganged up on a neighborhood bully who happened to be a paper boy for the _Morning Post_ and had stolen his entire stock. Soon the entire sitting room was littered with discarded newspapers as the boys started the delicate process of folding their boats using the front page picture of the newspaper. Mrs. Hudson had distributed sandwiches and fresh orange juice to all the boys and seeing her chance while Holmes was engrossed in listening to Wiggins' instructions, she shoved a sandwich into his hand, which he began eating absently as he watched Wiggins perform a complicated maneuver with the paper.

"You see, now you fold the triangle into a diamond shape and," Wiggins shifted the paper in his hands to the correct position, tongue stuck out at the corner of his lip, "pull open the hat lookin' thing and separate the corners, carefully see, until you see the cuppy part and then there it is—a boat!" Wiggins held out his creation proudly.

Holmes took the object in his hands and studied it from all angles, touching lightly here and there before he disappeared from the room, returning with an entirely different paper, although which bore the same picture. It was the original Meryton press release that the _Morning Post_ had procured the picture from. Watson had found it humorous and had bought a copy from the train station before they left. Holmes had been most displeased at the time. He plopped down onto the ground himself, folding his legs 'Indian style' as his young comrades had said, and began to prepare his own boat. The other boys watched in fascination when in no time flat and without a single misstep, Holmes produced a perfectly engineered paper boat.

"Wow, Mr. 'Olmes. I wasn't able to do it right even after the fifth time I tried," Thomas exclaimed.

"Me neither. Doctor Watson had to show me twice," Wiggins said.

"Can you help me with mine Mr. 'Olmes," one of the boys whined, holding up something that resembled a flattened cup.

"Of course," Holmes said kindly, preparing a new sheet for the boy.

Once they all had folded a satisfactory water craft—even if a few were somewhat lopsided—they all lined up at the front door in order to form their procession.

"All right lads, have you all got your candles?"

There were several choruses of 'Yessir's and 'Right-O's.

"Mine smells like lemon bars," Percy proclaimed proudly.

"Where d'you get that?" David questioned, eyes narrowed.

"Well I nicked it from someone's window sill."

"Oi, we were supposed to buy them!" Wiggins said indignantly.

"Where d'you get yours then?" Percy asked with obvious suspicion.

"It fell off the back of a cart," Wiggins said.

"That's stealin'!"

"And you? Where's yours from?"

"My aunt Dahlia."

"She give it to you?"

"No, I didn't ask."

"Then that's stealin' too!"

"What about yours? It's already half burnt up."

"I lifted it from a church."

"You stole from a church?!"

"They had 'undreds in there. They're not gonna miss one little candle."

Holmes cleared his throat loudly, causing a ceasefire in accusations and guilty confessions alike. "I have yet to procure a candle and it seems to me," he began with utmost seriousness, "that in order to follow the trend set by you fellows, I must steal a candle so that this ceremony can be successfully carried out."

Fourteen sets of eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

"Come, the game's afoot!" Holmes proclaimed, racing out the door like a madman followed by a steady stream of adolescent boys.

They navigated through London at a quick sort of pace and reaching the finest establishment on Oxford Street, Holmes placed the boys around as look outs and commenced in breaking into the high end store. He browsed their selection of candles leisurely. When he made his choice, he placed the cylinder of wax into his jacket pocket and relocked the door using his most basic lock pick tools. He barely noticed he had smiled the entire time.

When they resumed their march to the riverbank, Lenny, who was standing closest to Holmes, sniffed experimentally and asked, "What is that, Mr. 'Olmes?"

"I believe it is supposed to resemble the smell of daffodils," Holmes answered.

"I didn't know the Doctor liked daffodils."

"It would have suited his romantic side," Holmes replied, a little cryptically in Lenny's opinion.

When they reached the riverbank they all lit their candles and gently placed their boats in the water. Every single one of them floated and were swiftly taken by the current, spreading their lights across the Thames, adding a brilliant glitter to the darkened waters. Holmes lifted his face to the sky and wondered if Watson really was looking down at them.

Wiggins tried to see what the detective was trying to look at, but quickly averted his eyes when he saw his face. Wiggins coughed. "It um, looks like rain tonight."

David gave him a quizzical look. "Wot'chou talkin' about. There isn't a cloud in the—ouch!"

Wiggins elbowed his friend hard in an attempt to shut him up because David had obviously not seen the two glistening raindrops that had fallen from the sky and landed on Holmes' upturned face where they slowly made their way down the pale cheeks and slipped from the sharp chin to splatter onto ground, wetting the gritty sand.

Little Lenny tugged on Holmes' cuff. "Mr. 'Olmes, we have something else to tell you."

Holmes lowered his face and watched the little boats fade away into the distance. "Yes, what is it?"

"Me and David and my older brother, Bill used to live in workhouse in Westminster until Bill was able to get an apprenticeship as a carpenter. Me and David was real small at the time and Bill had this friend at the workhouse, his name was Gregory Jacobson."

Holmes body tingled faintly. Gregory Jacobson was one of the leading members of Nightside.

"His friend, Jake, he was called, owed a lot of money because of his pap, but Bill helped him escape. Jake wanted Bill to come wit 'im, but Bill had to take care of us. Jake told Bill that if he ever needed him, to find 'im in London. And you know what, Mr. 'Olmes?"

"What?" Holmes asked, barely daring to breathe.

Lenny smiled. "You look a lot like Bill."

* * *

_A/N__: Alright, enough with this sappy angst bullcrap. Next chapters is gonna be action, action, ACTION! Yeah! Okay, thank you for all waiting patiently (I think this two week update thing is gonna be a permanent wait time). The reception for my last chapter was phenomenal. 12 reviews! Seriously, my word! You guys are amazing, but damn did it up the pressure. So this chapter was supposed to be humor with some bittersweet. I hope you all enjoyed it. REVIEWS! I'll be horribly disappointed if I don't see twelve more by Monday._

_BTW, if you are interesting in Holmes slash fiction I have a preview of the two I'm planning to write on my livejournal at http:// pro-prodigy . livejournal . com/ and will also show up in Cox and Co…eventually. Although I do plan to write a slash and non-slash version of my Guardian fic. The two will be completely different, I can assure you._

_(1) Newspaper info and direct quote provided by http:// www. victorianlondon. org/ publications/ newsinlondon. Htm_

_(2) Direct quotes from A Study in Scarlet by ACD_

_Timeline provided by- http:// www. / Who_is_Sherlock/SherlockTimeline. html_

_Thank you for the Reviews!__ KCS, aragonite, Literatech, Pompey, Orriandra, pebbles66, reflekshun, Kadigan, Savethellamas, Mariagoner, and Timeal_

_You all made me laugh with your heartbroken desperation. Hope you all return to give me a review this time around. In fact, I COMMAND IT. REVIEW or no new chapter for you (or at least I won't be inspired to update on time, be warned). _


	4. Chance Encounters

It had taken a full week of preparation. Each day had grated on Holmes' nerves. It was arduous, torture even, but Holmes endured, unable to sacrifice his good sense to his baseless desire to merely gain access long enough to murder everyone on sight. He wanted much more than tasteless violence and revenge. He wanted to _end_ Nightside in a way that would leave no escape for its members and the proper amount of punishment and suffering for those who had sought to destroy him through Watson. For that, Holmes needed to play his part to perfection. His trap would have to be air tight so none could escape his vengeance.

He observed Bill by day and listened to his accounts of his time spent in the Westminster workhouses with Gregory Jacobson by night. As he watched him at work or casually about the town he observed his preferences and habits, moods and styles. During their nightly discussions Holmes would deftly mirror his mannerisms and expressions. Bill had found this disconcerting and even more so when the other man had begun replying using his accent and a steady tenor rather than Holmes' normally bright baritone. On Thursday Holmes had changed his look and begun frequenting among Bill's haunts and appearing at his work amongst his friends and colleagues.

It had been easy enough to alter his appearance. Mrs. Hudson's brother was a valet to a young gentleman and was able to properly barber Holmes' hair into the appropriate style and it was no great difficulty to slash the back of his hand with a razor and partially cauterize it to resemble a long healed scar. Bill and he shared similar facial structures though Bill's nose and brow were less severe than Holmes' though Holmes knew he could soften them with an impression of Bill's guileless smile and open expression. Therein laid Holmes' greatest challenge. Never before had he impersonated an actual person and he found the curtailing of his personality for an imitation of Bill's was sometimes strenuous. Where he would be suspicious, Bill would have no reason to be. At times when Holmes would seek hide his expressions, Bill would certainly show them. Bill would have changed some in the seven years he had been out of Jacobson's company, but long ingrained habits and essential parts of his personality would have remained the same.

Holmes found that a more admirable tool than Bill himself was David and Lenny. A man isn't trained to notice his own proclivities, but of those of the people around him, therefore Bill's brothers were the perfect resource in judging Holmes' performance.

"When you do that dip your chin a little Mr. 'Olmes."

"Bill hides his 'ands in his pockets, but I can see 'im rubbing his fingers when he's nervous."

Sometimes even more helpful than the observations David would offer was the way Lenny would screw up his nose a little at times and with all the vehemence of a child, suddenly exclaim, "No, it's wrong! You haven't—Bill's not…try something else!"

When he was able to flawlessly take the place of Bill while on an excursion to the duck pond in Regent Park without alerting David and Lenny, he sent the three Fitzgerald brothers into hiding to the north of England with sufficient funds, while he continued attending Bill's duties in the carpeting shop until he had somehow _inexplicably_ found himself accused of a rather unjust accusation of theft by the guild master and was fired from his position immediately. He then began searching for work in less reputable circles as he had only a tarnished record to recommend himself.

He tossed his—for he owned it now with complete conviction—name around all the wrong places, which were the right places if he meant to cause a stir. He moped to barmen, caused a slight brawl at the docks, and endured every second he perceived as patiently wasted. Finally, blessedly, after four days the barman at the Red Clover pointed out a gentleman that wanted to talk to him. Holmes made his way to the far corner of the bar where a man dressed as a worker was smoking an incredibly expensive cigar.

"Hullo, the uh, barman said you had a job for me?" Holmes questioned hesitantly.

"Same 'ol Billy," the man puffed, "never sees an opportunity when it comes a knockin'."

Holmes let his eyes widen and took a step forward to peer closely into the man's face, taking in a square jaw and Hellenistic nose. "Jake? Is that you?"

The man turned toward him and smiled, showing his teeth. "You thought I was dead or somethin'?"

Holmes put up his hands in a placating manner and shook his head once. "Nah, just surprised. Been a long time Jake."

Jacobson indicated for him to take a seat. "Not long enough apparently. Still stuck in the system, are you?"

Holmes frowned, genuinely puzzled. Surely Jacobson would have obtained information on him. "I left the workhouses years ago. I'm a carpenter."

"_Were_," Jacobson corrected, "and look where that got you. Threw you out as soon as they possibly could just because the big boss man said so. That's no way to live life, Bill, underneath the thumb of Bloody Bailey. No matter who they are, what they look like, that's who they are, that's who they all are. They're all like Bloody Bailey."

Holmes unconsciously rubbed the back of his hand in reaction. Jacobson's face darkened. "He was a real piece of work, making you shove your hand in that machine."

"Could have been worst. I could have lost it." Holmes abruptly changed the subject. "How did you know I lost my job?"

Jacobson ground his cigar into the countertop. "I've got a few connections now, heard about some hard luck case attached to your name. I asked around and made sure to track you down. Once upon a time Bill, I told you if you ever needed help, to come and find me. I meant it Bill. You helped me escape that place, gave me a chance at a new life. I'd like to return the favor. You heard of Nightside?"

"I heard rumors," Holmes' eyes darted across the bar, lowering his voice to a low mutter, "a fire, they say."

Jacobson smirked and clapped him on the back. "Still the careful listener, are ya? "

Holmes shrugged, but inside he bared his teeth in a triumphant grin. "Never know what information could prove to be useful."

Jacobson nodded. "Yeah, that was us, though it was a little more than a fire. You'll learn about it soon enough."

Holmes burned with the desire to simply tear away at the unprotected flesh at the side of the man's neck for talking about Watson's murder in such dismissive tones, but he tucked it into the deep well of emotions that had begun at the start of this whole mess and shut it tight. He didn't think about when he would no longer be able to do so.

"Listen, I want to give you a job. Something that will pay well all the time and where you'll be taken care of."

"I'm not going to go around starting fires, Jake," Holmes said, folding his arms in front of his chest across the bar. "I don't want to be a part of that."

"You and your high and mighty morals," Jacobson growled, obviously annoyed.

Holmes inwardly held his breath. He knew it was a risk to reject such a candid offer, but he had to gamble Jacobson's initial discontent for the continued authenticity of his role. Bill, who had once stuck his hand in a leatherworking machine at the behest of Bailey, one of the workhouse floor supervisors who had earned the reputation of bloodying anyone who did not meet his standards and had earned a name to match, in order to prove that neither he nor Jake had tampered with it even though if he had simply allowed Jake to take the blame he would have been both safe from blame and physical harm, would have never readily agreed to cause pain or suffering to anyone. Bill wouldn't do it and as Holmes continued to play him, he couldn't do it either.

The silence painfully dragged on for several seconds before Jacobson snorted and flicked the cigar from his fingers. "You haven't changed a wit, Bill."

Holmes once again indulged in another inwardly exultant smile.

Jacobson pursed his lips slightly. "Listen, you're still looking after your brothers aren't you?"

"Yes," Holmes replied. "They're in Coventry right now with a cousin. I've been paying for her to tutor them as well as their monthly expenses."

"You don't have a lot of options, Bill, not when you've been accused of stealing. I understand why you wouldn't want to join in on this sort of business. What if I could offer you something away from our usual jobs? You good with numbers?"

"I helped organize the books under Mr. Miller's employment."

"Could you do that for Nightside?"

Holmes hesitated.

Jacobson waved away his unvoiced concerns. "You won't have to launder money or anything. We have someone else to do that, but if you could keep track of our logs, expenses and our imports and exports, we would be in good shape and you would have money to care for your brothers."

"Drugs? Weapons?" Holmes asked suspiciously.

"As far as you know, boxes 873 and 614 are carrying 34 shipments of our Sunday imports. You see how some of our other gents can get a mite confused. Come on, Bill. How long until your cousin will care for your brothers without demanding money? I want to help you."

Holmes finally nodded. "Okay."

Jacobson handed him a cigar. "Good choice."

~*~

It was exceedingly dull work or it would have been if Holmes hadn't been slowly sabotaging Nightside's finances with deathly precision and care. He created whole ledgers of incongruous information that would lead to ruin in hardly a month's time. He did nothing so overt as to mislabel shipments or record incorrect amounts, but some of his expense breakdowns would include payments with increased percentage interest to certain persons. He also would conveniently attribute different imports to dates for exports, while simultaneously increasing bribery rates and schedules to a few judges and police officers. Soon Nightside's money would trickle away to nothing as quickly as grains of sand in a sieve.

Holmes always had a mind for puzzles. When at the mere age of five the logic games in the newspaper had ceased to challenge him, the simplicity of Nightside's log books offered Holmes the most gratuitous puzzle he had ever had the fortune to encounter. The simple code system revealed exactly what items came from which ports from which distributor on exact quantities. Once Holmes could read the code, he merely had to follow the lines of inference and deduction that led him to the illegal web of contacts Nightside handled. It wasn't long after his appointment that he had amassed enough evidence to convict Nightside members a dozen times condemned, convict at least two other gangs, four private businesses, and two crooked cops.

But Holmes real work took place in the unoriginally named 'Drink room'. The Drink was where members congregated in between jobs to water down with the gang's private liquor stores. It took quicker than he expected to get acquainted with most of the members. Being a friend of one of the founding members ensured many accepted him on that lofty credential alone. Others, like Bill, had been products of growing up in workhouses and enjoyed a good reminiscence after being thoroughly soused where the pain couldn't get to them anymore. He was given some grief for refusing to participate in jobs, but overall it was a simple task until he finally discovered who had been responsible for the Highgate fire.

It had been twenty-three days after Watson's murder when it was brought up amongst the men while heavily intoxicated in the Drink. Holmes hated hanging about at these times. No matter how much he hated high society, he hated stupidity, ignorance, and inflexibility of the uneducated even more. They let their difficult childhoods embitter their thoughts, seeking not to improve their lives, but to conduct themselves in the same way they grew up, where greed is the primary motivator and to simply lay blame on society for their behavior. Holmes often could find pity in his heart for some of the criminals he had apprehended, those lost souls who had been in the throes of desperation or even murders who had only sought justice from those who thought they could escape it, but these men, Holmes thought with resentment, only sought the next method to which they could pocket their coin with little care as to where it came from as well as starting petty rivalries with other gangs. The law that governed their fair country was only an obstacle to them. The lives they potentially destroyed were less than nothing. Holmes, in turn, would make them nothing.

It was a late evening and he had taken to bartending at the Drink like he did on many nights he stayed up with the books. It justified his being there to listen to the others' conversations as well ingratiate himself to them enough to keep their tongues wagging. It all started with the mention of his name.

"Oi, anyone 'ear of that Sherlock 'Olmes in a while?" Sutherland asked as he put down his empty whiskey glass.

Holmes was too well trained to look up at the sound of his name, but his focus inwardly turned towards the conversation as he continued to stare down at his ledger notes.

"Nah, heard he finally went off the deep end and left the business. What a sissy. One little death and he falls to pieces. We should have tried killing his housekeeper too. Maybe he would have hung himself," Donald said, which was accepted raucous laughter by all those assembled. Donald was an important figure, almost as well known as Jacobson, and headed their more profitable ventures, meaning any Nightside member worth his salt would want to be in his good graces. He was also the one Holmes had once put behind bars for a cunning museum robbery and therefore, very high on Holmes' list of people he would potentially maim if tied directly to Watson's murder.

"I sort of miss the good Doctor," said Thomas Thompson, otherwise known as 'Tommy Tom'. "Without his stories in the _Strand_, it's a lot harder to get the kindling going at home, what with all the pages missin'."

Their guffaws were punctuated by Sutherland pounding his empty glass on the tabletop. "Hey Bill, be a good lad and pour some drinks, will ya? Come join us while you're at it, get your head out of the books and some hair on you chin."

Holmes thanked whatever lucky stars he possessed for the opportunity. He brought out a few bottles from one of the crates and refilled everyone's glasses before sitting down himself with a small measure of gin. He flicked the at the hair that drooped down over his eyes in a well practiced move and took a small sip, still listening intently though looking as if he was simply interested in his drink.

"Glad I finally got a chance to get back at that bastard. If we were going to burn that shithole to the ground anyway, mind as well get revenge and street cred along with it. If it wasn't for Bryce, I'd be drunk and griping about how that bloody Holmes ruined my life." Donald took another hearty swig of whiskey.

"Hey, tell us the story again, Tommy," Sutherland insisted.

"Alright, alright," Tommy wheezed between heaves of drunken laughter, "well, me and Roland had to go down into the basement to bang up the water heater, but we did get up in time to see Bryce wrestling with the doctor to get the rag on his nose. It was hilarious, looked like he was ridin' on a bloody 'orse by the way he was struggling. Bryce went to go drag him in the main room while we poured the kerosene and lit the matches. Bryce may be a dull bastard to be around, but we wouldn't have been able to pull it off if he hadn't worked there at Highgate and knew the Doctor would be in."

Blood pounded in his ears, but Holmes remained silent.

"Then to top it all off, Bryce had the idea to send that letter to Holmes. It was priceless!"

Tommy Tom had no idea he had just signed his death warrant or that he had sent death to two of his fellow members, but the person highest on Holmes' list was Alexander Bryce.

And he knew exactly where to find him.

~*~

This time it was easy for Holmes to be patient as he waited quietly in the alley for Bryce to pass by. Every step brought him closer and the moment he stepped into view, Holmes lashed out a solid kick to the side of his knee cap. Bryce crumpled to the ground instantly with muffled cry. His ability to walk was instantly suspended and escape was even less likely. Bryce went for his gun, but Holmes quickly grasped his wrist and elbow and suddenly applied the right amount of force for it to snap backward at the joint. The man screamed in agony as the bones of his arm broke and bent.

"Stop it! What the bloody hell are you doing?!"

"I have come to kill you."

"I don't even know you!"

Holmes felt a smile curl about his lips. "Really? You sent me a telegram, you know."

Holmes peeled away the hair that hung above his brow and smoothed it back toward his head, while he simultaneously ripped off some of the putty that softened his nose and rounded his cheeks, but it was in his eyes that he revealed himself and the malice he finally allowed to unleash for the sputtering man on the ground who lay half curled about his broken arm and lamed leg. Holmes took a step forward and retrieved the gun Bryce had dropped and aimed.

"WAIT!" Bryce waved his one could arm. "Wait, don't kill me! Watson's alive. I can take you to him!"

"Do you know why torture is an ineffective interrogation method?" Holmes asked conversationally. Bryce whimpered as Holmes bent down to hiss into his ear. "It's because people will say anything in order to make the pain stop."

Unfeeling and entirely cold, Holmes aimed the stolen revolver and shot Bryce in the foot. His scream echoed in the night. When Holmes aimed again, Bryce began babbling with twice as much urgency as before.

"No, you don't understand! I work for someone else. They didn't want Watson dead. They only wanted to capture him! The whole fire and Nightside was a smokescreen to cover a bigger scheme. I sent that letter under specific instructions to make you _think_ it was Nightside that did it. My colleagues took the real Watson. I dragged in the fake body myself. If you stop right now, I can lead you to where you can find him!"

Holmes tossed the gun aside, causing Bryce to sigh in relief until the detective grabbed him by the shirt front and began dragging him across the dock planks towards the water. When they were sufficiently close enough to the lapping waves, Holmes retrieved the bottle of alcohol he had specifically left there and upended its contents all over the still screaming Bryce. When he burned the body the ashes would be lost in the Thames. The dock was empty. There would be no witnesses, no evidence. Bryce continued to scream for his life.

Holmes lit a match.

"I'm telling the truth! He's alive, man! HE'S ALIVE!"

The burned down the short length of the wood. Holmes could feel its heat near his fingers.

"I don't believe you." Holmes' voice came out flat, a one note gathering of words with no inflection.

He dropped the match.

The screaming grew even louder.

~*~

_A/N__: Sorry for the late chapter and the short length and the not so great quality. Moving in had taken more energy than I thought and I am still acclimating to actually having to write with my damn roommate watching TV and doing other annoying stuff like existing in my space and so I haven't had much opportunity to do some real good writing. Since this is a short chapter (and also because the next part has already been preplanned unlike this one) expect an update next weekend as well. Sorry for the hiatus. Thank you anyone who decided to bear with me here._

_Thank you-Bianca, Marty, and koredik- for the lovely reviews as well as everyone else who I should have already responded to and whom I dearly hope come back to read this hastily thrown together chapter._

_Next chapter be epic, I promise. Cheers._


	5. The Pledge, Turn, and Prestige

_The chapter you've all been desperately waiting for._

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* * *

  
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"Keep that fucking lunatic away from me!"

"Mr. Holmes," Lestrade intoned, pinching fiercely at the bridge of his nose, "would you care to explain what exactly is going on here?"

"Oh, I don't know," Gregson commented dryly, watching as Bryce practically launched himself into the arms of the nearest constable, which was quite a feat considering he only had one good limb to work with, "this seems to be fairly typical behavior from the criminals Mr. Holmes is kind enough to deliver to us."

"Mr. Holmes," Lestrade repeated, a hint of a growl making its way into his voice.

"For the past month I have worked undercover within Nightside in order to retrieve the necessary information and evidence that would link the gang to the Highgate fire. I promise you, Inspector that once this investigation comes to a close I will provide all of the essential details required to arrest its members and put them behind bars with charges that will mysteriously not come into fruition in the court room. The task should be made easier as Nightside will soon be experiencing an imminent collapse of their central infrastructure and utter financial ruin.

"As for Mr. Bryce, I had received irrefutable evidence that he had taken part in setting fire to Highgate with specific intentions on killing Doctor Watson and while resisting arrest I was forced to subdue him in a most violent manner. The shot to the foot was a result of a spirited struggle to seize his revolver from his hand and the burns were caused by our struggles upending a lantern whereupon the alcohol from a badly packed shipping crate caught fire very close to where Bryce had been lying and so caught fire himself. I had to roll him into the Thames to put it out."

"My God man, why did you not fetch a doctor?" Lestrade exclaimed.

"If you haven't noticed, Inspector Lestrade, I am currently missing my usual physician," Holmes said tightly. "Speaking of which, I have also come examine Watson's remains. They are in the police laboratories, are they not?"

Without waiting for an answer or permission, Holmes began to stride purposefully in the direction of the station lab, leaving Lestrade trailing in his wake.

"Mr. Holmes, why—?"

"I wish to see it," Holmes said, betraying nothing in his tone and purposefully staying a step ahead of Lestrade in order to keep his face from view.

"Mr. Holmes," Lestrade called, following the man into the laboratory.

He didn't ask how Holmes had known which linen covered body was his friend's. Holmes hesitated, one hand wrapped in the white, pristine sheet.

Lestrade swallowed. "Holmes, is it true how Bryce received his injuries?"

"I could answer truthfully Inspector or you can retract your question. You are a respected ally, Lestrade. I should not like to put us in a situation where either of us would be forced to lie."

Lestrade let out a long, steady breath from his nose. "He's alive at least."

"Yes."

"But you did not wish him to be?"

"You misunderstand. I had not," Holmes' eyes darted back to the sheet, "I had not expected it to go that far."

"This happens only once Mr. Holmes and only because Dr. Watson was my friend too."

"Thank you, Inspector. You are…very kind."

"Not to Bryce, I would expect."

Holmes mouth would have ticked into a smile, but he could not seem to manage it. Taking a deep breath, he lifted the sheet and stared at the blackened and splintered thing that had once been his friend, but now resembled something only reminiscent of a human form.

Lestrade held his breath. "What do you see?"

"Nothing," Holmes replied.

Because what could he say? If he laughed like he wished he could, no doubt Lestrade would have thought him mad and have him committed to the nearest asylum. That certainly could not be borne, Holmes had work to do.

~*~

Holmes had only retrieved a couple of things from his room at Baker Street and only made it a single street from the flat when a cabby pulled up beside him.

"D'you need a ride, sir?" the cabman asked gruffly.

Holmes' eyes flitted over the large gentleman ensconced behind a newspaper twelve paces to his right and then to the two who had been following him from a discreet distance since he had cleared his door, who were positioned across the street, hands stowed away in the pockets of their coats, which was unusual in such fine weather.

Holmes smiled amiably. "It seems that I am, how fortuitous that you have arrived, my good man."

The cabman blinked for a moment as if unused to that particular answer, before reluctantly returning the smile. "Oh yes, indeed, sir, indeed."

He didn't even bother to ask Holmes for a destination before setting off. They went in the direction of West end until veering off suddenly where the cabman deposited Holmes on a street corner where he was soon met with a carriage of which Holmes was none too gently shuffled within between two men who thought it necessary to put a blindfold on him and to tie his wrists. Holmes noticed instantly that it was silk rather than twine. Professional, efficient, and quiet. Holmes smiled. It was everything that he had expected and hoped for.

Holmes kept a loose account of the direction they were heading, noting disinterestedly that they had doubled back twice and circled around at least four times before they reached their destination in thirty-four minutes of travel. Holmes was then guided out of the carriage and into a building, which Holmes could identify as a private residence due to the changes between expensive hardwood flooring to exotic thread carpeting and the way sound was dampened as it was distributed through the room, which indicated the existence of furniture which absorbed the echo and passage of three sets of feet. He was led twenty-two steps down into a cellar or basement and was sat down into a straight-backed chair where someone began to remove the carefully knotted ties on his wrists.

His lips curled away from his teeth, not so much a smile as a predator giving a silent warning to its prey. He didn't even wait for the blindfold to be removed before he began to speak. "I would greet you properly, but I assume I address those who do not exist according to British record and a gang that for all intents and purposes, does not exist either."

When the blindfold fell away from his face, his eyes revealed to him what his other senses and his superior intellect had already informed him of. Two men sat on either side of a kidney shaped table, illuminated only by a single incandescent electric lamp affixed to the ceiling. The gentleman to his left wore a well-groomed though somewhat old fashioned moustache that seemed to be just about the only distinguishable feature on him. The rest was only remarkable in the fact that they were entirely unremarkable. The gentleman to the right was in his prime, his hair only beginning to grey around the edges with a square jaw and thick, heavyset shoulders. They were each attended to respectively by a maid, who served them drinks standing perhaps just a fraction too close to be standard procedure and wearing clothes only very slightly scandalous.

The gentleman to the left took a delicate sip from his coffee before replying, as if he felt the beverage more deserving of his consideration. "Your confidence can very easily be mistaken for arrogance, Mr. Holmes. I suggest you adjust it. It is a very unappealing quality in a guest."

Holmes' eyes flashed. "I have only availed myself to your hospitality because I explicitly chose to. I am here to our mutual benefit. If you wish for my cooperation, do not insult me and especially, do not think to toy with me."

The man's unremarkable features assumed an expression of polite inquiry. "Toy with you, Mr. Holmes, how so?"

"If you and yours intend to enter into negotiations with me, then perhaps you should not expect me to speak with your butler," Holmes drawled, nodding towards the gentleman on the right.

The man's moustache twitched in a kind of smile before he gave a few whispered instructions to the man across from him who then immediately bowed and exited the room. He redirected his attention to Holmes once more. "A small test, you understand. One cannot always trust what one reads in the _Strand_, no matter how charmingly written."

Holmes clenched his teeth at the unspoken reference.

The man drained his cup. "May I ask how you deduced that he was not my associate?"

"Silver polish stains on the gloves I saw he had hastily stowed in his pockets and for the sake of expediency, I inferred that she," Holmes pointed to the maid who had been attending to the masquerading butler, "was no female from the Adam's apple that particular French _bonne_ outfit is able to hide. Did you think I would not be able to recognize stage makeup and disguises when I saw them, perhaps?"

The maid in question gave an explosive laugh in a glorious falsetto. "God, he is good!"

He then proceeded to rip away the cap he wore as well as some of his excess squirts and tying the expanse of his hair into a loose tail, dropping into the recently vacated chair and propping his bare legs upon the table. He was lean and very young with a handsome, heart shaped face that allowed him to carry out the roll as ably as the young men who had traditionally frequented the stage earlier in the century. Holmes estimated that the young man, if he could even be considered that, was fresh out of Oxford, if not still in attendance. What was the world coming too, he thought grimly, if the world's youth could be ensnared into the inner circles of crime so quickly?

The boy smiled widely, looking more than a little mad still sporting his lip paint and rouge, as he guessed Holmes' thoughts. "Oh no, no, Mr. Holmes, I was hardly corrupted. I was the one who forced my father into an early retirement. It was my duty as his son to uphold his legacy. He was going soft in the head, you see, and I had to preserve his original vision."

This boy, Holmes decided, was just as deranged as he appeared.

His counterpart cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should move on to business. For the remainder of the proceedings you may refer to me as Jerome and my associate as Peter."

"I hate Peter," the younger man stated seemingly out of nowhere.

Holmes did not bother dwelling on its meaning. "Very well, Jerome. Do we both concede to possessing something to which the opposite party is desirous of having returned to them?"

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours," Peter sang.

Holmes pulled a few loose sheets of foolscap from his waistcoat and held them up for them to see. "Copies, from Nightside's records as well as the original building contract of Highgate. I have both originals stored in safe keeping, so do not bother raiding my Baker Street residence during my stay here with you."

The remaining maid plucked the sheets from his hand and delivered them to Jerome, who perused them with in depth precision. "No, Mr. Holmes, we are not so unrefined in our methods. We are a thriving practice, after all."

"No organization would be head by a party of two. There would be no democracy in it. Where is the third member of your party?" Holmes questioned with unequivocal authority.

Jerome's attention was still fastened on the papers Holmes provided. "He has regretfully departed to start his own private ventures. We have yet to replace him."

"So boring without the old Professor," Peter sighed.

"Well Mr. Holmes," Jerome collected the papers and handed them off to the maid, who did not return them to Holmes but made them disappear into the many folds of her skirts, "it seems you do possess something we would be interested in negotiating for. Tell me, you could not have gathered this information in the short space of time since your chance encounter with Bryce, when did you first suspect an involvement of a third party?"

"Ever since I investigated the Highgate ruins, though the idea had not fully formed until I had conferred with one of my more reliable sources."

"You refer to your mercenary friend with the angelic moniker. Yes," Jerome caught his gaze, "we know all about your dealings with him, but prey, go on."

"I confirmed of course, that the fire had not been the result of natural causes, but what I found most curious was the building itself. I observed pipes that had led to the boiler room, though were unconnected to the main water system. That, coupled with the fact that the room adjacent to the boiler room contained extensive files that had not failed to perish with the fire, led me to conclude that the pipes were as significant as they were incongruous. It is how you got your start isn't it?" Holmes asked, though he knew the answer as surely as he knew the seventeen steps that led up to the sitting room. "Highgate has always been known as being frequented almost exclusively by men in the Yard and therein lay the source of the most sought after commodity in the criminal world—information. Who hires a barman, doorman, and card dealer instantaneously with signing a lease for the building before even a manager can be found? It needn't even be information that could be used for potential blackmail. Men in Scotland Yard, who devote themselves selflessly in the simple act of their work, talk of little else even in their leisure time. Profiles on all the officers could be collected, allowing assessments on those who could be turned or used. Information on current cases and their personal lives would also be readily available. You created a network to all the major criminal circles, dealing in information. Not only did you have a resource in constant demand, but it had the dual purpose of allowing you to be wholly informed on both sides.

"And when you became firmly established within the system where you could manipulate along the sidelines," Holmes continued, both the appropriate amount of respect and a profusion of disdain apparent upon his face, "you sought to eliminate loose ends."

"Go on, go on, don't leave us hanging in suspense," Peter crowed, practically shivering in excitement. "Bryce must have told you something, that spineless little wrench. What else have you deduced?"

"Your objective had always been to liquidate all ties to your former trade. You would not have been able to outsource the job to another gang or hire private services without risking it being tied to you, so you have one of your people work as a mole to whisper into the ears of Nightside, who could match the _modum operandi_ and had personal stakes to give credence to a murder, provided them with the proper information and allowed them to do your dirty work, all the while allowing no trace of it leading back to you."

"Yes, we effectively used Nightside as our Catspaw, but you underestimate our tactics. There's one question you have yet to ask," Jerome said, his tone unnervingly mild.

Peter's grin widened. "Where's Watson?"

Every molecule in Holmes' body froze.

"Oh yes," Jerome nodded, "we have him."

"I know."

Displeasure briefly flitted over Jerome's impassive face. "Bryce told you, no doubt."

"I did not believe him when he said it, though it did prompt me to inspect Watson's remains myself. Who was the poor soul?"

Jerome shrugged dispassionately. "Nobody, someone we pulled off the street."

Holmes was struck with the horrible monstrosity of the man. Peter may be insane, but this man, who looked as plain and ordinary as the next, who one could pass by in the street, had shot a man twice with a Jezail rifle with only a care as to how it would further his own plans.

"The wounds were at least six months old, long enough for some of the bone to knit, though to be fair it was a passable doppelganger. I am unsure whether the coroner was under your payroll or merely blindsided. Either way, your designs would have required extensive planning. A lot of effort was certainly involved in faking my humble biographer's death," Holmes reasoned, trying to remain as candid as possible.

"Indeed, careful months of planning all spoiled by that idiot Bryce," Peter moaned woefully.

"Watson had been our long term investment. It works much better with children, but there we are," Jerome added.

"Oh, imagine it, Mr. Holmes!" Peter exclaimed. "There you are, five, six, maybe even ten years from now when you stumble upon a singular case. One thing leads to another and you are lead to our doorstep ready to put us away for good, but wait, what's this? Your beloved friend back from the grave? Priceless. What choice would you have, but to agree to whatever terms we lay down?"

"Essentially the same dilemma you face now, albeit much earlier than we had anticipated," Jerome interrupted smoothly.

"How did you know I would not have retired, left London to grieve for the death of my friend?" Holmes asked.

Jerome shrugged. "We would have used him to extort you in some way or another, perhaps to gain leverage on your brother or who knows what may have happened in the near distant future. Like we said before, we were prepared to keep Watson in our custody for a considerable amount of time. Ah," Jerome paused, listening to the sounds of the cellar door opening, "Morgan's timing is most fortuitous."

Holmes recognized the gait of one of those descending the steps. He listened with all his being, almost forgetting to breathe as two sets of feet paused a scant two feet away from him. He could not move, did not dare to turn around and have his disappointment witnessed by the men before him. He had grieved. Oh, he had grieved. He had been in such pain and if he gave in to hope now, he knew that he would not be able to survive it a second time.

"Holmes?"

And then he was standing, one hand gripping the back of his chair as he stared into the face of his friend. It took two strides of his birdlike legs to bring him mere inches from his friend, where he wrapped his arm about Watson's neck and crushed him inside his rough embrace. It was one thing to know the truth and a whole other thing to have tangible and irrefutable proof to the fact. For instance, it was all well and good to be told that the sun will cast away the darkness, and another to see the sunrise.

The contact lasted little more than a second, but if Watson had any doubt as to the extent of his friend's grief, worry, or joy, it was erased instantly by the way Holmes held his gaze when he pulled away with a whispered, "John?"

"I am well, Holmes," Watson said quietly.

As Holmes took in his friend's appearance, he grudgingly admitted this to be no attempt at understatement on Watson's part. He was not wearing the clothes he had left in that night, but what he was wearing was for the most part, clean and perfectly serviceable. He noticed that Watson's shirt was wrinkled and in general, had a much more rumpled appearance than his waistcoat, indicating he had probably slept in it. He looked weary, not in the sense that he had not been sleeping, but it was obvious his imprisonment had taken a toll on him. His appearance was certainly not as militarily kept as Holmes could remember it being and he had lost some weight, though bore no traces of malnourishment or mistreatment of any kind.

As if seeking some sort of normalcy between them, Watson held out his hand, which Holmes reluctantly took, and shook hands with him. He tried to convey everything he could with the gesture, everything from 'I'm sorry' to 'Don't worry' to 'I missed you' and 'I'm here'. Holmes, who could read guilt on the face of the best liar, could see this with perfect clarity and the haunted look Watson had seen in his friend's eyes began to lift little by little.

"Enough of that," Peter snapped impatiently. "We have business to attend to."

"Morgan, a chair for the good doctor, please," Jerome indicated towards the empty space the table bowed around. "By the way Mr. Holmes, if you had thought to slip your friend something during that touching reunion, know that Morgan will be searching the doctor afterward and he will be suitably punished if anything is found."

Holmes resumed his seat which was now only a few seven paces from where Watson now sat. "He will be released soon enough. If I were to give him anything, it would at least be a book. I doubt his accommodations are fit with no more than the bare minimum of survival. A cruel torture for a learned man to be kept idle."

"Do not fret, Holmes. My cell is at least a little better than this room, though it shares some charming similarities and my days are not so awful. When I am not engrossed in counting dust motes, on my spare time I watch the sun's steady rise or count bell chimes," Watson commented dryly.

Watson's voice was somewhat scratchy and Holmes wouldn't have been surprised if this was the most Watson had spoken since his incarceration. Holmes had seen the desperate need in Watson's face during their brief moment of contact and he knew loneliness could eat at any man. That coupled with a lack of stimulation of any kind and Holmes wouldn't have blamed Watson for being half crazed by now.

"They have not harmed you?" Holmes asked.

"No, my leg has been acting up despite the lack of space to walk, but I think that may be from worrying about you so."

Holmes nodded before turning his attention back to Jerome and his colleague. "Very well, you have Watson and I have all the necessary evidence to tie you to over a dozen crimes. My infiltration into Nightside was not in vain, you see. I'm confident I could prove your involvement in several of the cases that have gone unsolved in the past seven years or so. I will give you my word that I will destroy it all and whereas I cannot promise that I would ever stop hunting you, rest assured such information would never find its way into the hands of the police. In exchange, you let Watson go free."

"Bugger that, what a right awful plan. I have a better suggestion. You destroy the evidence and to assure our continual operation we keep Watson and allow you to visit him, perhaps say," Peter tapped his chin in consideration, "the third Sunday of every month and holidays with the exception of Christmas."

"No, you return Watson or there is no deal."

Jerome let out a breath of impatience. "You forget Holmes that while you do possess something we want, you can only either give it to the police or not. We, however, have a plethora of options. There is a very wide spectrum between Watson being dead or alive, after all." Jerome rose and stepped around the table to begin circling around the seated Watson, who watched him warily. "For instance, we could take away his food, water, bed," a knife materialized in his hand as he listed withdrawing Watson's amenities like they were items on a shopping list, "his clothes, his dignity. We could even take away a few of his limbs, though we would have to sever them on separate occasions. Some men don't survive the trauma."

"We could torture him. We could hurt him," Peter said, eyes aglow. "Everyday he would beg and scream and cry. Everyday, something new."

"And once that becomes too much of a hassle, we can always kill him and send his head to Baker Street. We prefer to work in perfect anonymity, but we could change it if we were forced to. So you see Holmes, you may have a better set up, but we have the more important piece. This was never so much a negotiations as it was an ultimatum. Do as we say and we won't disappear within the folds of society's sinful bosom, taking your dearest friend and colleague with us. What is your answer, Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes observed his friend who by now, rather than shaken with fear, only appeared to be fuming over his role as leverage against his friend. Watson caught his eye and shook his head by the barest of increments. Holmes frowned and dropped his gaze.

Jerome sighed. "Must I really conduct a demonstration?" He tossed the knife from his left to his right hand and took a step forward.

"No!" Holmes shouted, his voice just out of its usual control. "I agree to your terms. I will deliver all hard evidence to you within twenty-four hours and erase all of my own personal records on the matter."

"You have not perhaps spoken to any of your police associates?" Jerome asked.

"No, I could not risk it before receiving proof of life," Holmes stated, dully.

"Very good."

The knife flashed without warning, cutting across Watson's upper arm in an instant and then buried unceremoniously inside his shoulder so that the handle stood up sickeningly from his flesh, practically parallel to his neck. Watson did an admirable effort at strangling his cry of surprise and pain.

Holmes was on his feet in an instant. "I agreed, damn you!"

"I'm only reminding you, Mr. Holmes, who exactly is the victor here. Perhaps it will temper your arrogance. Morgan, please escort Mr. Holmes off the premises."

Holmes was forced to leave to the sounds of Peter's deranged laughter and Watson's breaths of tightly controlled pain.

~*~

Hours later, instead of being found inside Baker's Street before the blaze of papers that would ensure Watson's continuing health, Holmes was sitting in a booth at the Steer and Stine.

"What do you want now, Mr. Holmes?" Forcas asked, between letting out a puff of smoke from his cigar. "Would you like to call another favor?"

"I wish to enlist your services."

Forcas' eyebrow cocked in surprise. "I see. I'm sorry to say however, that my particular services would be worth more than your remaining favors."

"You misunderstand," Holmes said, dropping a large bag in front of the man, the jingle of several hundred coins and thud of banknotes on the wood table unmistakable. "I intend to pay your fees in full."

Forcas drew the bag towards him, fingering its drawstrings with an amused expression. "'A fool uttereth all his anger; but a wise man deffereth and keepeth it till afterwards'. Revenge is certainly a dish served better cold."

Holmes smiled. "'The desire that is accomplished, delighteth the soul'."

Forcas raised his glass. "To my newest employer."

They drank and drew their plans.

By tonight, it would all be over.

Revenge is always sweetest when served cold.

* * *

_A/N__: Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion! Sorry for the extension on this chapter. As a reward I blew off my suitemates and almost boyfriend when they invited me to go partying at a casino and sat alone in my dorm room to polish off this chapter. There, see? Watson is not dead. Jeeze, I was surprised I wasn't getting death threats, only passive 'He better still be alive, or else' sort of comments. Honestly, kill Watson? Preposterous. Though to be fair I had strung you guys along pretty far. Oh yeah, and the two quotes above are from the Bible's Proverbs section.  
_

_Is everyone checking your inboxes? That's where I answer reviews because there are just so many of them! 51 reviews for four chapters? You guys are so amazing! * huggles* Special thanks to IrregularHonour, Eyebrows2, and 96Hubbles who are all my newer readers and special love to all my peeps who have stayed aboard from the first chapter, KCS, Literatech, Pompey, reflekshun, Marty, Savethellamas, and pebbles66. Thanks for all the support! Reviews yay! _

_*clears throat* On that note, here's me callin' out on the lame-o's who put me on fav story and story alert but have yet to drop a review. Sweet Topaz, Chris-Remmey, and AstroKender, you guys upset me. Gir. _


	6. All Our Little Sacrifices

"I almost cannot believe it," Hopkins said, watching as Holmes was led away from Baker Street with Inspector Gregson and Lestrade.

Watson watched also, some unidentifiable emotion upon his face. "Though it was not their only mistake, it was certainly all that was required to bring about their downfall. It does not pay to underestimate Sherlock Holmes."

"But what he did…" Hopkins trailed off.

Watson smiled, his eyes fastened on the figure of his friend below. "You honestly did not think him capable of it, Inspector Hopkins?"

Hopkins shook his head. "No, not really."

"I will not complain. I am the one who benefited most, after all. I will always be grateful. I am not much of a church man, but I have lived an honest life even if my prayers have been confined to the welfare of my patients rather than thanks," Watson paused slightly, pensive. "Though for the life of me I cannot fathom what I have done to deserve such a profound friendship as the one I had been granted with Holmes. I am either blessed or uncommonly lucky."

Hopkins was surprised by the openness in which Watson spoke. Then again, the two of them had gone through Hell and back in the past month or so.

Just before he was shuffled into the cab Holmes looked up towards the sitting room window and smiled. It was something like triumph and nothing at all like regret.

* * *

_Eight hours previous…_

"You realize don't you, that there is no going back after this," Forcas murmured quietly, leaning against the trunk of a nearby tree, shrouded against the light of the moon, dark clothes blending into the shadows. A pistol was cradled comfortably within his right hand, crossed about his waist. As he spoke, he gestured casually with the thing as if it were merely cigarette rather than a weapon.

Holmes vaguely mirrored his stance, though with his arms crossed about his chest and one leg propped up against the trunk, looking less casual than bored. "As you have already sent your men to complete the first stage of this operation more than eleven minutes past, I must concede to your point. Time has a rather inconvenient property of being linear."

"That is not what I meant."

"No, but I saw little point in answering your actual query."

"Hard truths?"

"Fanciful assumptions," Holmes quipped irritably.

Forcas smiled in an abstract manner at the moonlit sky above them. "When a starving boy steals an apple for his sick mother he thinks to himself, 'I need it. There is no other way.' and he would be right. But then in a few days time he will inevitably need another essential thing and another after that. Where is the line drawn between need and taking civil liberties with the law? It is a slippery slope to find yourself on."

"Then I am thankful I have yet to embark upon it."

"Very well, Mr. Holmes. You know better than I."

Holmes arms tightened in annoyance. "You are not conceding to my point, only appeasing me."

"We have a saying in this business, Mr. Holmes and it is that the customer is always right. If you say you haven't begun your depraved descent into the criminal world, then who am I to say otherwise."

"At least grant me the authority of someone well-versed in the criminal mind rather than merely a customer when I say that this event is a singular occurrence. It shall never be repeated for as long as I live."

Forcas nodded, bored. "As you say, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes had intended to pursue the subject further when someone materialized from between the trees. The man was a taller than he and Forcas, though possessed a smooth, thin face that suggested he was younger than the both of them. So far Holmes had observed that he was both utilitarian in his speech and his movements and didn't seem to possess any sort of vibrancy. He conducted his tasks without enthusiasm, which was refreshing to see rather than the overzealous nature of others in his trade. Neither did he exude the persona of an individual who was jaded or world weary. He was not coldly professional in the same way Jerome had been, but seemed determined to be efficient as possible no matter what his task was.

He exchanged a few nearly inaudible words with Forcas, who replied less quietly to gather the others before nodding politely to Holmes and disappearing once more.

"Eli says Rusham will be returning shortly. Are you ready to take your first step into Hell, Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes didn't reply, but merely gazed hard in consideration at the well-groomed and muscled man before him, appraising him with the whole weight of his considerable mind. "How old were you when your father brought home Elijah, expecting your mother to care for the result of one of his many dalliances?"

Forcas' eyes flashed. "How did you—?"

"The two of you both share an affliction of daltonism, color blindness, though the two of you suffer from different forms of it. Am I wrong?"

He pushed off the tree, his gun still held loosely at his side, but managing to appear threatening nonetheless. "Let me correct your one misapprehension, Mr. Holmes. My mother _never_ cared for Eli and dad didn't give a damn. I've raised him myself ever since I was five years old."

"It must have been difficult, raising a child while only being one yourself," Holmes commented mildly.

"It made me who I am today." Forcas' eyes darted ruefully down at his revolver. "With the kind of life we had, I would have faded into nothing without Eli. It was easier to be stronger for someone else, easier to make tough decisions when it wasn't only my life I was working for."

"I surmise you were forced to steal a lot of apples."

"That and more. Medicine, sometimes and anything to make some money. My mother expected Eli to take up being a renter to supplement our income. I once came home to find him being pawed at by an older man my mother had set him up with. Thankfully my father, though an unspeakable drunk, was on the more muscular side of burly and I was able to send the gentleman on his way. He was lucky to still have the necessary faculties to bear children after that."

"And what," Holmes drawled, "would you have done if your mother's plan had succeeded?"

"I would have ripped out the man's guts and forced him to watch while I shoved it down my mother's throat."

"Very enlightening. Now, with the exception of such a thing ever occurring a second time, could you ever be compelled to such violence again?"

Forcas cocked his head, his stance loosening by minor increments. "No."

"There you are then. In the same way you are driven to the extremes due to irreparable harm done to your brother, I am similarly driven for the sake of Watson. It is a singular event because of the extraneous circumstance in which it was incurred. I have spent nearly a month believing my friend to be dead and I choose not to dwell on whether there may be something more terrible than that, barring his actual death in which case it really would not matter at all since living without Watson is the closest to soullessness I could ever be and therefore hardly comparable to the mere sullying of it by hiring a team of mercenaries."

Forcas shrugged, settling back against the tree trunk. "Fair enough."

"Indeed."

They waited a few more minutes before they were once again joined by Elijah, who was accompanied by Caulders, a man as big as an ox, but whose eyes held the intelligence of a much smarter beast, Brisbee, a Yankee with guns strapped on each side of his waist like a real American cowboy, Pollux, a reedy slip of a man with hands that itched to snatch the nearest item or pry open the closest padlock, and Rusham, who was not one person but two, two eerily similar looking people with the deep brown skin and medium height of their people and the identically deep blue eyes of their British naval parent.

"Is everything ready gentleman? Rusham?"

"Five sentries."

"Four dogs."

"Half finished," they concluded in tandem, their speech surprisingly unhindered by an accent other than the usual English one.

"Alright, we have a job to do gentleman. Pollux, Brisbee, inside. Rusham, flank. Elijah and Caulders with me and Holmes. Let's go."

Brisbee and Pollux sped ahead with Rusham, who separated to either side with Holmes's group bringing up the rear. The manor was surrounded by a high wrought iron fence in the front and a thick brick wall in the back. They approached a junction where fence and wall met, which the leading four sped up and over with notable efficiency with Brisbee, Pollux and one of the twins proceeding on ahead while the remaining twin unlocked the heavy wooden door that was located further down the wall. The house was still some distance away, though Holmes noticed one of the sentries laid behind a low garden wall and two of the dogs stashed underneath some gorse bushes, all seemingly dead to the world. Holmes made a mental note to inquire what exactly the Rusham twins coated the needles of their blowdarts with. No doubt an old recipe passed from one generation to the next in the depths of India was more efficient than morphine or chloroform.

All the curtains in the house were drawn, except for a spare few which were pitched in darkness. Holmes could see that despite the blinds, several of the rooms held occupants who were awake even at this late hour of the night. They crept quietly towards the house, avoiding the sightlines of the remaining guards. It was wiser to take the extra care to avoid them than to put them all down and arouse suspicion. The four of them were soon pressed against the shadowed part of the house while Rusham shot up into the branches of a nearby tree. They waited, every breath seeming to be the length of eternity before the second Rusham twin hurried out from around the corner of the house, gesturing for them to follow. There, along the back side of the manor was a single, frosted—or else exceedingly filthy—rectangular window at ground level, the front of it covered in dark iron bars.

The moon tonight was in its third quarter and half full, which, although not as revealing as a full moon, lit up that whole side of the house. They would be spotted in an instant if alerted. The date of their operation was not of their choosing. Thus, they were not working in optimum conditions. However, it had also been nonnegotiable.

Rusham drifted away to monitor the other side of the house, while Elijah watched their backs as Holmes, Forcas, and Caulders crouched before the barred window. Holmes couldn't help the small smile that lit his face as he spotted the small break in bottom left corner of the window, a bit of the glass stained with a dark splotch which could have been anything, but which he knew was blood. Meanwhile, Caulders dropped his burlap sack to the ground and withdrew two tools: a massive chisel and an even larger hammer.

"This is going to make a lot of noise," he rumbled as he put the chisel into place above where the bars had been bolted into place.

"Could you not have spared a small fraction of the generous funds I had paid you to buy a little bit of dynamite?" Holmes whispered.

"If you wanted a mess, we could have purchased dynamite. You paid for precision and that is what you are going to get," Forcas said between gritted teeth. "Go, Caulders."

Caulders lifted up the hammer high above his head.

After this moment, there really was no turning back. They either carried it through to the end or died trying.

Caulders struck down with the hammer, the enormous muscles of his arms rippling as he sent chunks of solid rock and plaster flying. Caulders quickly repeated the actions on the opposite side and then more quickly at the two bottom corners. It really did make quite a racket, though not as much as dynamite would have, Holmes grudgingly admitted, but certainly enough that he could hear the sounds of stirring inside the house.

Forcas and Caulders gripped either side of the grate and pulled, backs and shoulders straining as they wrenched the metal bolts out of what remained of the wall. Now, that particular sound of twisted metal screeching against scraggly rock was what finally alerted the household. Within seconds, lights could be seen in the windows above them and loud voices shouting.

One voice in particular caught his attention.

"Holmes, is that—it can't be!"

Whatever else had happened before, for Holmes, it was in that moment he recognized that he either died in failure or saw this through to the end with Watson in their sitting room in Baker's Street where he belonged.

The window was similarly wrenched free, revealing his friend at long last, a look of comedic shock and utter consternation on his face as he sat up straighter from where he reclined against the wall atop his Spartan cot that was bolted to the floor. As he moved, the clink of heavy iron chains could be heard as they slithered across the floor and clanked against the metal bedpost. He had new bruises on his face and some blood on the collar of his shirt. Holmes could have been able to deduce the full nature of the injuries, but as he dropped down into the tiny basement cell, followed by Elijah and sounds of pounding feet somewhere just beyond the heavy wooden door, he had more important things to attend to.

He knelt to the ground and pulled out four of his best lock picking tools, two immediately going into his mouth for easy holding as he examined the lock to the manacles on Watson's ankle. He cursed around his picks when he realized it was a pin tumbler lock rather than a warded one, but it wasn't unexpected and he set to work on it immediately. Simultaneously, he could hear the various latches and locks of the cell door being relinquished also.

Replacing one tool for another, Holmes' mouth was effectively cleared, allowing him to question his friend with immediate urgency. "Watson, how hurt are you?"

"Bad enough, I took a beating. My leg is—" he faltered, his hand moving over to rest lightly upon Holmes' shoulder, the gesture speaking volumes. "I won't be able to walk, much less run."

Holmes knew what his friend didn't dare say aloud. The hand on his shoulder said, _You have done all you can. Thank you. I'm sorry to have wasted your efforts_. The slight tightening of the fingers along his coat said, _Run_._ Please._

But all Holmes could hear was _Leave me_ and he could not do that, just as he could not do it when he had thought Watson to be dead. It was too much and Watson was everything.

Holmes shrugged off Watson's hand. "We will manage. Now let me work."

The door had only just begun to swing open when Forcas aimed with the languid grace of heavy practice and fired twice, shouts echoing from whatever chamber laid outside the door. He went to aim again when his head snapped back behind him as he heard the call of angry voices, triumphant in their discovery.

"Hurry dammit," Forcas growled, withdrawing slightly from the window in order to focus on neutralizing outside interference. Two shots rang out in the stillness of the night.

"Please note that I am not purposefully making time inconveniently pass!" Holmes replied crossly, sliding a third pick into the lock.

Three men dashed into the room, the first one immediately felled by a pair of matching blades, painted black to hide their sheen of wicked steel, thrown with expert precision by Elijah, the weighted three inch blades becoming embedded in the fellow's leg, sinking into the meat and fat of the unfortunate man's thigh. Watson's shackles came free just as the other two men closed in. Already in a crouched position, Holmes was easily able to sweep his legs from under one of the men and deliver a hard kick to the solar plexus and then temple, while Watson used his newly liberated chains to clobber the next man, swinging them with as much strength as his twice damaged shoulder could manage, the length of chain looping around the man's ribs and chest before the heavy manacles collided with his skull.

Holmes caught the man mid-stagger and shoved him roughly into an adjacent wall. "Come Watson!"

Holmes immediately supported his friend's side, getting him off the bed and starting towards the window, where he was aided by Elijah on the other side. Caulders reached out to pull him up, but Holmes shook his head. "His shoulder's injured."

"Lift him,"rumbled the man, indicating with his hands to bring him up.

With scant seconds of deliberation which consisted of a silent exchange of eye and hand signals, Holmes and Elijah simultaneously held one hand underneath Watson's buttocks, the other steadying his hips and thus thrusting him up off the ground so that Watson's head and shoulders came out through the window where Caulders' enormous dustbin hands clutched underneath his armpits and lifted the rest of him up and out, plucking him out of the basement like his was a mere child rather than a fully grown man. Forcas, momentarily free from defending their position, put his hand out to pull one of them out of the cell.

"Eli, come!" he ordered.

Elijah looked dubiously from the proffered hand to Holmes. "But the job…"

"You are my job, you always have been, little brother," Forcas snapped, though somehow managing to do it affectionately.

One side of Elijah's mouth quirked up in a smile as he took his brother's hand and quickly climbed out of the dreary little cell and back out into the moonlit night. Holmes was in the process of being helped up by the two half-brothers when yet another crony came through the door and this time he was armed. A bullet to the calf had him losing his tenuous foothold on the smooth cement wall. He slid down, hoping the wound would not be too debilitating, but the notion was instantly dashed his now lamed leg practically folded under him. He kept his hands on the wall, body taut as he prepared to fling himself out of the way of the second bullet, but the shooter was soon dispatched by a duel pistol wielding Brisbee, who had come from the depths of the house and was now covering their retreat.

His wavy blond hair was in a windswept mess about his face and his cheeks flushed with excitement. "For all that British stuffiness one hears about, you gents certainly know how to party."

Both Forcas and Caulder's hands came down to clutch at Holmes' arms and jacket.

"We can't afford delay. We need to get out now!" Forcas hissed.

Holmes was more or less dragged out by his arms through the window with Brisbee coming out a little after him with quite a bit more finesse. Holmes attempted once again to get his injured leg under him with almost no success, but the problem was soon remedied as he was swept up and tossed unceremoniously over Forcas' broad shoulder with hardly a grunt of effort or much room for protest as they beat a hasty retreat back towards the door near the gate, a position similarly held by Watson over the even broader shoulder of Caulders.

An impossibly large wolf hybrid began to rush at them, barking madly, before it was felled by a blue feathered dart that might have been a hummingbird for all its speed, shooting out from the tree that one of the Rushams was currently sliding down to join their merry jaunt. Pollux was waiting at the door, nearly bursting with irrepressible glee and with good reason for it seemed that his pockets were similarly bursting with possibly every glittering trinket in the house that could be found.

They ran through the adjacent park, another Rusham inexplicably making his way back to their side, assuring them that their passage was clear. By this time, both Holmes and Watson were resigned to spend the rest of their now more casual flight through the rest of the park and then sewers, bumping along like rucksacks across the shoulders of their giant escorts.

"You know," Forcas breathing becoming only somewhat affected from his added burden, "it would have been much simpler had you simply hired us to murder Jerome and Peter rather than attempt a highly risky and excessively costly rescue."

"Yes and perhaps I also knew," Holmes huffed, half winded by the shoulder pressed against his stomach, "that there are indeed some things there is no going back after."

"Holmes?" Watson called, wheezing slightly as well.

"Yes, dear fellow?" Holmes addressed Watson, turning in his direction as much as he was able.

"Thank you."

Watson stretched out his hand in the space that separated them. Holmes instantly reached out and clasped his friend's hand, their fingers somewhat stretched between the uneven gaits of their carriers, though still managing to hold firm.

"No thanks are necessary. Honestly, old chap, I—" Holmes was suddenly cut off when Forcas jumped over a sewer pipe and with only one hand to steady himself, Holmes more or less smacked his face against the mercenary's broad and rather solid back. He came up with a scowl and rubbing his nose, which had suffered the brunt of the trauma. "For the love of—would you just put me down! It is not as if I am some maiden to be carried off wherever you so please."

"When you weigh as much as a lady and go about having such touching moments with the good doctor here, one does wonder," Forcas drawled.

Watson laughed and Holmes had not the heart to feel properly insulted because he would be damned if he did not admit just how much he had missed the sound.

They were soon availed to a spacious four wheeler, though Holmes felt no scruples in budging up close to his biographer as if they were in a tiny hansom.

He had Watson back and though that was a monumental accomplishment there was still so much to do. They day had only just begun and Holmes was on the hunt for much bigger game. He was out to get the tigers and when he found them…well, they would find out what happened when they took something of his and they would regret what they did because Holmes planned to take everything even if he had to take them down with him.

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_A/N:__ Alright guys, in desperation to get a post in, I've divided up the full conclusion. This being the Resolution Part I and next chapter being the Resolution Part II, Dénouement, Epilogue, and bonus sneak peaks on my upcoming SH works. I'm sorry for the long wait and such short chapter (which I made up for with tons of action?). College is kicking my ass and when I finally seemed to be getting out of the dumps I keep having events on the weekends. I will TRY very hard to see if I can get the next chapter (which is already half completed) in by next weekend._

_Story Notes:  
(1) Daltonism- Now a term used for red-green color blindness, but when the disability was first published in the scientific community by John Dalton, the condition was named after him.  
(2) Rusham- Traditional Indian name for boys, meaning 'beautiful'. (Have you ever seen an Indian with blue eyes? It's really rare and quite startling to see.)  
(3) Pollux- The immortal twin in the Gemini pair. (Not exactly relevant to the story, but i'm compelled to spread enlightenment on Greek classics.) _

_Okay, I hope to see you guys next week…and that this chapter was at least passable. *sighs* Thanks for your continuing support of this story. I can't believe how much love I get for so little chapters. You guys are awesome. _

_Next week: Holmes confronts Peter and Jerome and we find out how he was able to carry out his thrilling rescue! _


	7. Endgame

_Uh…so here it is after exactly two months of waiting. *ducks under barrage of rotten fruit* I'm sorry! Stop throwing, start reading!_

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Watson would heal.

He had shown remarkable resilience in the past and Holmes was confident that the Afghan vet would prove once more that he was made of much better materials than the average man with time. He would recover, physically and mentally. Of that, Holmes had no doubt. That he had to at all was what made Holmes' normally composed and orderly mind lash out in fury and rage.

The appreciative wonder in Watson's eyes as he beheld the night sky, like he marveled in his blessing to see it once more cut at Holmes more than it had to see his physical injuries treated, injuries he had sustained apparently at the hand of Jerome, who behind his placid expression possessed a scalding temper. Watson had told Holmes Jerome had the patience of a monk, willing to wait until Watson was fully recovered before he dealt another blow, that way he could go for hours, never tiring and ensuring Watson's optimum suffering.

"You see, Holmes," Watson smiled wearily, "he had not emerged from your confrontation unfazed."

Watson had meant the statement as a form of reassurance and Holmes was forced to consider whether Watson's usual brand of pawky humor had been warped by the weeks of isolation. He said as much to his friend.

"I had not known there were so many hours in the day until I was forced to endure every single one of them with only the prospect of enduring hundreds more, alone there with only my thoughts as company. I was…" Watson stared somewhere between Holmes' carotid artery and his clavicle, unable to meet his eyes, but unwilling to let his gaze stray lest Holmes vanish from sight and discover he was slowly going mad in the confines of his cell. "Jerome and Peter may have intended to keep me for an extended period of time, but I can't say with any amount confidence if I could have lasted."

Holmes knew the confession was only given because Watson was vulnerable, so he allowed it to pass without comment. Any words of remonstration were reserved for his captors, not he.

"But I did know," Watson offered with a more genuine smile, "that as long as you were alive and able, you would be looking for me. I had no doubt that you would pursue an investigation despite what you had been led to believe."

"Of course I would, old boy. It was a thrilling case with multiple points of interest and fraught with criminal intrigue. There was no hope for the Yard."

Watson needed stability and Holmes would give it to him. Besides, Holmes didn't quite want to admit to his friend or anyone else for that matter, that beyond revenge his motives for pursuing this case had been simple: he had wanted to maintain his last connection with Watson for as long as he was able. Accepting your friend was dead and living through the indefinite future without him were two entirely separate things.

"Rest, dear fellow. This case has yet to reach its most assuredly, stunning end."

And with Watson abed, Holmes waited for his grand machinations to unfold.

At 9:22 that morning the beginning of the end began to precipitate, starting with two callers being admitted into Baker Street, three sets of footsteps making their way up the stairs, and two villains entering the sitting room, while Mrs. Hudson reluctantly returned to her rooms. Jerome was immaculately dressed in an iron grey plaited waistcoat with matching pants and a formal black jacket. An onyx tie pin glittered over a perfectly affixed ascot and his walking stick made from Cocobolo wood, a rare and expensive rosewood most likely imported from Mexico. It didn't have the right weight or shape to contain a sword cane, but Holmes could see the minute traces of a small caliber pistol attached to his belt. In comparison, Peter was dressed in, what Holmes deduced was indeed his own Eton uniform of pinstripe pants, traditional tails, and highly starched collar. He could have passed for any other student if not for the age old stain of blood on his left sleeve, hidden by the dark fabric and the fact he was idly flicking a Döbereiner's Lamp. Such things had fallen out of production in favor of matches, seeing as they had the propensity to explode and cause third degree burns to the lighter's handlers. Peter apparently didn't seem to mind and Holmes mentally accounted for yet another random variable to the morning's proceedings.

Holmes was dressed in only his shirtsleeves and trousers, his posture relaxed while he sat in his armchair, though keenly aware of the revolver digging in his back sunk halfway between the cushioned upholstery. He was confident, but he most certainly was not stupid.

"Gentlemen, please take a seat," Holmes said, indicating the furniture with a grand sweep of his hand, like a magician at his premiere performance.

"Oh, no offer of tea?" Peter sneered as he dropped onto the settee and immediately setting out to burn a few of the loose threads along the arm. He was restless, Holmes noted. Less anxious than like a caged animal who had its meal taken away only half finished or still somewhat alive, as it were.

On the other hand, Jerome showed his agitation in the tense set of his shoulders as he sat on the basket chair, one leg maneuvering over the other, his whole body taut as a bowstring before the arrow is loosed.

"You foiled our plans." Jerome's expression would have been a grimace if it wasn't suffused with rage.

Holmes studied his once neatly trimmed cuticles, now somewhat scraggly due to weeks of taking his teeth to them. It was a bad habit, one he would reverse once more in the following days. "Yes, I have."

"You found where we were keeping the Doctor, how?"

"Easily," Holmes replied. "You underestimated my abilities. More importantly, you underestimated my ability in choosing whom I associate myself with. Do you really think my long time friend and business partner would be totally foreign to my methods, that we had never formed codes amongst ourselves, or prepared in the event either one of us were captured? You were correct in accurately deducing the importance I attach to Watson's wellbeing, but failed to comprehend his worth. In the spare amount of words we exchanged, Watson provided me with nearly all the information I needed to locate him. Bell chimes, not clock chimes told me he was in hearing range of a church. He was being kept in a room, much like the basement in the private residence we had our meeting in, facing east, all deduced from a seemingly casual remark on his part. Beyond my first inquiry on whether he was well, there is no need to repeat it, so when he mentioned his leg was hurting after I asked if he had been harmed—which is quite ridiculous of a statement at any rate seeing as his leg hurts all the time—he was able to tell me exactly the extent of his restraints and its placement."

Holmes touched the tips of his fingers together, a grin spreading infectiously across his face. "You had of course, anticipated the possibility that I may slip something to the Doctor during our brief moment of contact, but blindly did not consider the reverse. Did you, for one moment, think it was odd that we shook hands after embracing? Watson was able to transfer just enough soil from his window after breaking a small corner of the glass for me to identify the geographical significance of the sample. Quartz, feldspar, mica, and sulfates like gypsum are the most abundant first and secondary minerals found in soil, but specific combinations as well as the different types of mica and silicate clay materials present make it as easily distinguishable as a unique fingerprint. A quick cross-reference in accordance to the various real estate in the area and I knew the Doctor's location within the hour. Consequently, I also know the location of where we conducted our meeting. Blindfolds are manifestly irrelevant to one such as I. This is my city, not yours and this game is over. I bested you. In every way, I have bested your efforts against me."

Holmes' eyes glinted with his triumph. "You took your chance, placed your wager, but here I stand with both Watson once again under my protection and the evidence needed to bring down your entire organization. You're finished."

Peter, in an almost childish show of petulance, threw his archaic lighter device towards Holmes' face in pure spite. Holmes had anticipated the action due to close monitoring of the insane youth's body language and his quick reflexes allowed him coax one of the pillows out from under him in order to catch the thing mid-flight, which promptly ignited, setting the cushion on fire, which Holmes swiftly sent over the grate and into the fireplace, straining to appear impassive, although the episode had been a great cause for worry despite its brevity.

"Next time you won't be so lucky, Holmes! Next time you will hold your dying and mutilated friend in your arms and you yourself with suffer an even worst fate!" Peter shrieked, a fleck of spittle flying from his mouth like that of a mad dog.

Holmes remained unfazed, only staring hard at the adversary before him. "I cannot imagine one. Your imagination must be very great indeed."

"As is yours," Jerome drawled languidly and Holmes was instantly aware of the shift of confidence in the tone of Jerome's retort. "Did you imagine," Jerome continued, uncrossing his legs to lean forward over his steepled fingers, "your miraculous rescue of Dr. Watson did not go unchecked? You made a bold move, to be sure, but do not think for a moment it came without a price. Yes, you can choose to use your evidence to bring us to justice, but know this Mr. Holmes, we will most assuredly ruin you in turn. It will be almost worth the trouble to see you in a jail cell beside us. Perhaps we might even share."

Holmes let out a harsh bark of laughter. "I am flattered, however I must inquire as to what possible digression I could have committed that would place me in league with your own acts of criminality, including murdering a man with the intent to be mistaken as another whom you kidnapped and set fire to an establishment well known for catering to policemen, injuring seven and killing one other? The last time I checked, kidnap, murder, and arson were not a part of my particular repertoire of investigative methods."

Jerome smiled, the expression cold and terrible on his mundane features. "I warned you about hubris, Mr. Holmes. You are very clever, but that stooge has forever been your blind spot. Did you really think," Jerome said in a slow and mocking imitation of Holmes' earlier retort, "we would not notice that you had paid the Archangels the entire sum of money left to you by your 'dearly departed friend'?"

Holmes kept his face carefully free of expression. "I did nothing of the sort."

"The hiring of mercenaries is illegal, just as kidnap and arson is. By all means, go to Scotland Yard and we will make damn sure the authorities will begin an investigation of their own into your finances and believe me Mr. Holmes, we have friends much higher than your busybody brother. You will have nowhere to run and nowhere to hide."

Holmes paled somewhat, but the muscles in his jaw clenched in grim determination. "And what would you advise?"

"Drop it, take your dear doctor and leave us the fuck alone," Peter growled.

Jerome nodded. "I concur. Drop the case and we will let you and the Doctor go quietly into the night. Burn the documents here and now and we give you our word that we will leave off killing the both of you to a later time."

"I'm afraid," Holmes paused for a second, inclining his head slightly as the sounds of an obvious scuffle somewhere upstairs filtered down into the sitting room, the loud thud of a body hitting the floor and the shrill howl of defeat punctuating his momentary silence, "I am unable to do that as it is far too late to put a stop to what has already been set in motion."

It was Jerome's turn to pale, which he did considerably, worried eyes quickly darting to the sitting room door when footsteps could be heard descending from the third floor, promptly followed by the door swinging open and Sergeant Berkeley, who bore a fair resemblance to the Doctor, strode into the room, wearing Watson's dressing gown and leading someone who would have been a man according to their dress, but whose fiery red hair, small hands, and softer build proved otherwise.

"Get your hands off of me, you uncivilized, idiotic, uncultured buffoon! How dare you touch a lady in this impertinent matter? You great lout!" the woman shouted impetuously, arms straining against the derbies that restrained her hands behind her back.

"Ladies do not pull a knife out to stab poor unsuspecting men in their beds, nor does a proper lady scale the side of building using the drain pipe wearing men's trousers," Sergeant Berkeley drawled, though seemed less intent in mocking her as to simply be rid of her, the reason for which becoming immediately clear when the woman turned and spat directly into his face. Berkeley did not remove his iron grip upon her arms and merely wiped his face across the sleeve of his uniform. "Nor do ladies spit in people's faces."

Jerome's hand immediately flew to his concealed weapon, but the movement was terminated as soon as the door to the water closet opened, revealing Inspector Lestrade and another constable, who had his own gun at the ready, which was followed nearly simultaneously by Gregson emerging from Holmes' bedroom, gun aimed directly at Peter's unprotected back. Peter turned his sullen stare on the Inspector, so that the crosshairs came directly between his eyes. Gregson responded by deliberately pulling the hammer back with a definitive click, his arm never wavering from its target.

"You have underestimated me again, Jerome," Holmes concluded quietly. "Just because I am on the right side of the law does not mean I always intend to play fair. However, it is becoming increasingly apparent that neither were the two of you planning to deal in good faith with this meeting. Trust a scorpion to always act according to its nature." Holmes's gaze flicked momentarily to the still fuming lady. "Never employ a trick more than once, especially once revealed because inevitably the trick becomes worthless. After you had attempted to disguise your second and mislead me with your butler, I suspected a similar tactic with the maid who remained in your presence during our negotiations. It immediately appeared strange to me that you would allow someone outside of your highest sphere of influence to bear witness to the event. After all, you specialize in secrets. As I mentioned before, I harbored a substantial amount of doubt that you would leave your organization so vulnerable as to leave its leadership to an unbalanced number of just two. There had to be a third and 'lo and behold, there was but one other present in the room. Understand, Jerome, that my dislike of women stems from a firm grasp of the treachery and cunning women are capable of. I am not one to dismiss the possibility of a criminal mind just because it is enshrouded behind a fair face. She may very well have just been your personal concubine, but no, her hands spoke differently. Women of that profession do not have hands calloused from long hours holding a pen or practicing with a gun or saber. The light indents on the bridge of her nose indicated she wore reading glasses, most likely when pouring over extensive notes and reports of the organization's dealings. As for how I knew you would go after the Doctor while you monopolized my attention, desperation tends to make one sloppy."

Holmes' expression became as hard as flint. "And in that one area, you overestimated me. I never gamble with other people's lives. The moment I suspected the Doctor to be alive, I left a letter of explanation of my findings and detailed instructions with those I knew I could trust within the Yard and as keen as I was to return Watson to Baker Street, I could wait a little longer to ensure his safety. So you see Jerome, I cannot give you the evidence linking your secret organization to over a dozen serious crimes because they have already been taken to Scotland Yard, probably being catalogued into formal charges as I speak, collected at nearly the exact time I was showing you the copies and even if they did not have that evidence in their possession at the very least you could both be charged on grounds of a confession as heard by three on duty Scotland Yard officers."

"Then you have sealed your fate," Jerome hissed.

Holmes set his chin in his hand, staring lazily up at Jerome as Lestrade confiscated the man's gun and placed cuffs around his wrists. "I don't see how. I have done nothing wrong."

"I had at least twenty people in the house guarding Dr. Watson, all of them armed and with plenty of resources. There is no way you could have infiltrated the compound and rescued the Doctor alone. I know for a fact that you hired mercenaries, Forcas and his band of misfits."

Holmes shrugged. "I deny it. Where is your proof?"

"You will be found out, Mr. Holmes. Don't count on your brother or your friends in the Yard to cover up for your blunder."

"No indeed, my brother Mycroft has been busy with a diplomatic quandary and has actually been absent from the country for several days now and will not return for another several days yet. As for the Yard, I'm sure they would be more than happy to be rid of my eccentric methods and ghastly manners."

Jerome's entire face became red with anger. "Don't try to play coy with me, Holmes! You did it, I know it as surely as the sun rises!"

A whistle sounded from down below in the street and through the window, they could see two police carriages pull up to the pavement beneath the Baker Street apartments.

"Alright, I have had just about enough of criminal intrigue for one day. Gregson, Berkely, if you would please escort our guests out. Mr. Holmes, if you would please come with us. While this Jerome fellow's accusations are sorted out, you can help wrap up the investigation at Scotland Yard."

"Of course, Chief Inspector. Please allow me to gather my things."

No sooner had Holmes collected his waistcoat, jacket, and hat when there was a distinct knocking upon the door. His face brightened considerably and he was nearly out the sitting room door and down the stairs before he had finished his call of, "Come, Inspector!"

He reached the door before even Mrs. Hudson could emerge and opened it to reveal the drawn, though relieved face of Watson.

He smiled. "Ah, Watson. How did you like the accommodations of the Camden house?"

Watson weakly returned the smile. "I can't say that it was all that wonderful considering it was empty, but it was better than the accommodations I have received in the past few weeks and the company was good."

They both turned to give a wave to the retreating back of Elijah, who threw a hand casually over his shoulder, masking his farewell as a hail for a cab, which was being driven by a large man, wearing a suit far too expensive for a simple cabbie and who shared a small shadow of resemblance to his passenger. The cabbie made a minute gesture that could be construed as a nod before he directed his horse and drove off down Baker Street.

"Oh, Dr. Watson, I'm very glad to see you, sir!" Hopkins greeted jovially, having come with the Marias at the end of Holmes' carefully laid trap.

"And I, you," Watson replied sincerely.

"Alright, Mr. Holmes, in you get. We haven't got all day. Inspector Hopkins can look after the Doctor," Lestrade ordered gruffly.

Watson blinked. "What? What is going on, Holmes?"

"I am being accused of the hiring of mercenaries in order to enact your rescue."

Watson blinked again, but otherwise said nothing.

Holmes patted him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, old chap. Everything will work out. You will see."

"Is it true then, Mr. Holmes? Were you willing to sacrifice yourself in order to bring down the people who kidnapped Dr. Watson?" Hopkins asked, the small amount of wonder in his voice left undisguised.

"I would like to say that 'It is better that we should both perish rather than that my enemy should live', but as I still assert that I am innocent, I cannot in good conscience use the phrase, though it would be quite the dramatic piece of dialogue for Watson's next story. Good day to you both. I will return in time for dinner, I expect."

Watson nodded, trying not to appear worried, and held the door open for Hopkins to enter. "Please come in, Inspector. I'm sure Mrs. Hudson would be delighted to make us a fresh cup of tea."

In fact, Mrs. Hudson was so delighted she rushed to the kitchen, crying all the way. Both Inspector Hopkins and Watson were wary as to whether the tea would bear a salty aftertaste.

"I almost cannot believe it," Hopkins said, watching as Holmes was led away from Baker Street with Inspector Gregson and Lestrade through one of the sitting room windows.

Watson watched also, some unidentifiable emotion upon his face. "Though it was not their only mistake, it was certainly all that was required to bring about their downfall. It does not pay to underestimate Sherlock Holmes."

"But what he did…" Hopkins trailed off.

Watson smiled, his eyes fastened on the figure of his friend below. "You honestly did not think him capable of it, Inspector Hopkins?"

Hopkins shook his head. "No, not really."

"I will not complain. I am the one who benefited most, after all. I will always be grateful. I am not much of a church man, but I have lived an honest life even if my prayers have been confined to the welfare of my patients rather than thanks," Watson paused slightly, pensive. "Though for the life of me I cannot fathom what I have done to deserve such a profound friendship as the one I had been granted with Holmes. I am either blessed or uncommonly lucky."

Hopkins was surprised by the openness in which Watson spoke. Then again, the two of them had gone through Hell and back in the past month or so.

Just before he was shuffled into the cab Holmes looked up towards the sitting room window and smiled. It was something like triumph and nothing at all like regret.

"Still it's hard to believe."

Watson chuckled at that. "What is harder to believe, that Holmes rescued me single handedly or that he paid an exorbitant sum to have a gang of mercenaries do it for him?"

Hopkins suppressed his smile. "I honestly cannot say."

"Neither can I. It would be rude for the assistant to reveal the master's secrets, after all," Watson replied, sitting down to drink his sodium enhanced tea.

And if the Doctor's response appeared cryptic, Hopkins decidedly ignored it.

* * *

Several hours later, night already having crept upon the streets of London, Sherlock Holmes made his way back into Baker Street and the silent rooms were the only ones to bear witness to the radiant expression that adorned Holmes' face when he entered the sitting room to find his dear friend and colleague snoring, sprawled out upon the settee.

Reverently performing an act he thought he would never have the opportunity to do again, Holmes moved to tuck in the blanket more firmly about his sleeping friend, his hand lingering perhaps a fraction longer than strictly necessary in order to feel the warmth of a person he had been informed was dead a little over a month ago.

Holmes then bathed and changed into his nightshirt and dressing gown, entering the sitting room once more to rouse his friend enough to get him towards his room and a proper bed, but something of his own exhaustion began to creep up on him and he collapsed heavily into his armchair, blinking furiously. Dazedly, he counted up the number of hours he had slept in the past week and realized he needed no additional hands than the two he already possessed to do so.

Thus, Holmes slept there, curled up in his armchair and the two were undoubtedly better for it. It was hardly peaceful, but at least in the intervals whenever either of the two of them would be frightened into wakefulness—Holmes because he expected to wake up with the cinders of ash in place of his friend and Watson because he was sure he was having yet another mad hallucination, dehydrated in his cell—they invariably woke up to the blessed assurance that the other was near and that the better parts of their dreams would not dissolve away to a nightmarish reality and if they found flimsy if serviceable reasons to continue these sleeping arrangements for the next week—Watson was still injured and Holmes had spilt acid on his bed sheets—so be it.

These rooms kept many secrets and the two could bear their hearts as much as they pleased in the privacy of their home. The rooms they shared, as much as a set of rooms are able, rejoiced.

* * *

"Holmes?"

"Yes, Watson?"

"_Did_ you have your brother cover up your finances?"

"No and the two reasons why he did not are one in the same. Firstly, after nearly two weeks working as Nightside's unofficial accountant and personal clerk would have adequately prepared me enough to launder the money in my bank accounts personally and secondly, as I was Nightside's unofficial accountant and personal clerk it was not all that difficult to create a separate account where I siphoned all the various amounts of money due to accounting errors into. Nightside won't mind, the entire gang has since been rounded up."

"But why the exact amount? It was no immeasurable treasure, but it was quite a tidy sum nonetheless."

"If I did pay the exact amount, Peter and Jerome would not have felt secure enough to risk coming out in the open to meet me. Why go into hiding when they still had a good chance at both success and revenge?"

"Are you sure you haven't yet given up your profession as a consulting detective to foray into a lucrative career as a criminal? I hear tell that there is a very large opening now that Chairo Edwards and Gregory Peterson have been convicted as leaders of an underground syndicate of informants."

Holmes snorted, wisps of smoke exiting his nostrils from his pipe. "For that, I would need an accomplice. Do you know anyone who would fit the bill?" Holmes asked, staring pointedly at him from where he sat at his desk.

Watson gave a rueful shake of his head. "No, I regret to say I do not."

Holmes sniffed. "A pity."

"But seriously, Holmes. You were certainly playing a little close to the chest during this entire affair," Watson said, more imploring than accusatory.

Holmes shook out his pipe. "Not necessarily, the Archangel brothers have decided to turn from mercenary work in order to create a private firm to extract victims of kidnappings and although I may have crippled Bryce, I did not kill him. Besides, the stakes were very high."

"I would not want everything you have worked so hard to become be destroyed because of my death."

"Who I am today has largely been built in part by my associations with you, Watson. If you die, logically, it would only follow that I would emerge changed."

"I would be flattered if I were not so worried."

"And you would not be the John Watson I know if you did not worry. But there is something I have been meaning to ask you. Why," Holmes pressed past the echo of pain that inexplicably shot through his chest, "would you not write me a letter when you had prepared concessions for everything else?"

Watson dropped his gaze, avoiding the pain he could see so uncharacteristically plain upon his friend's face, a pain he knew he had caused. "I know it sounds silly now, but while writing up my will had been a practical measure, writing a letter as a last goodbye seemed so…depressing that I simply could not manage it. I apologize for any additional grief it may have caused you. In fact, I shall write one today, if you like. Only…"

"Yes?" Holmes inquired, somewhat curiously.

"You must write one also. Now. Today. If this experience has taught us anything, it is that we have to face the fact we may not have the time to say everything we wish to." Watson met Holmes' gaze at last, hazel meeting grey. "Is that agreeable?"

Holmes grumbled somewhat, but agreed. Thus, the two of them sat down, Watson at his desk and Holmes at the least cluttered portion of his chemistry table and began writing.

"Oh and just so you don't receive any other nasty surprises, I have you listed as my next of kin in case I am ever grievously injured and the hospital needs to contact someone," Watson announced, while continuing his writing with ease.

Holmes was not having so smooth a time and became agitated at the interruption, stabbing his pen irately into the ink well. "Yes, fine, fine. I will have Mycroft send someone to help me draw up my own will and I will change the lease on Baker Street to include your name as well."

"Tomorrow I am going to visit a new club I have been invited to join. I think some of the Yard will be there as guests to celebrate my not actually being dead."

"For once, a legitimate cause for celebration. What time will you be leaving? I'll join you," Holmes responded absently as he scribbled a few lines before crossing them out and then going back to circle two or three of the words.

Watson ceased his writing and turned to peer at his friend. "Holmes, I know that we should more carefully consider the possibility of each other's deaths, but there is no need for you to change your habits entirely. The Highgate fire was an isolated event. It isn't likely to happen again and even if it did, there's very little you could have done to stop it."

"That isn't the reason I wish to accompany you." Holmes set down his pen, looking somewhat relieved from the distraction. "When faced with the possibility of never spending time with you again, now that I have been granted the opportunity to do so once more, it is a gift, a gift to my friendship with you, that I am unwilling to squander. Do not expect me accompany you to some ridiculous masked ball, however. Drinking to your health and existence I can stand, but other such frivolous activities are just as repugnant to me before you turned up as a bullet and two stones worth of charred flesh bone."

Holmes did not have to look up from his draft to know Watson was bestowing him a warm smile. Holmes scowled down at what little he did have written down or at least that which was still legible before crumpling up the paper and reaching for a new sheet of foolscap, which he also glared at.

Watson took pity on his friend, whose writing abilities typically spanned from code breaking to monographs on coffee grounds. "Perhaps we can take a break. I have longed to hear you play your violin again, Holmes."

Holmes raised his brow at the rather blatant tactic, but could not deny the sincerity in his friend's request and soon, but not too hastily, left his chemistry table to retrieve the case of his Stradivarius. There was a fine layer of dust now coating the top of it and he took great care in removing it before opening the lid.

Watson noticed this with a frown. "Did you not play at all while I was missing?"

Holmes ran through a basic G scale along with its corresponding arpeggio before answering, flexing his fingers while making a small adjustment to his E string. "I cannot answer a question that is fundamentally incorrect. You were not missing at the time. You were dead. There is a sizable difference and I was busy."

"You are always busy during cases, but you always find time to practice even if it is that atrocious bowing you do when you are thinking. You could not have considered ending your playing indefinitely!" Watson fairly exclaimed. He was far too surprised and horrified that his friend had forgone something so beautiful and so innately a part of what made Sherlock Holmes, Holmes that he found himself unable to censor himself.

Holmes turned away and began spreading rosin along the length of his bow. "Don't be ridiculous, Watson. I would have played at your funeral."

Watson was suddenly struck with an unfamiliar emotion when confronted with evidence of the profound friendship he shared with Holmes. That he was overjoyed to have it and amazed by it at times was a given. That he felt lucky was another, but he had never before felt humbled by it. Not in the sense that he was humbled that a genius like Holmes would deign to be his friend, but that the magnitude of Holmes' friendship was at least equal to his own. Before, Watson had always assumed that if he were to suddenly die or leave, Holmes would eventually move on, but in the past few days and others that Watson had not born witness to, Holmes had proven that Watson's assumption could not have been further from the truth.

And it humbled him to know that.

Watson moved forward while Holmes continued to pluck at his strings at an attempt to tune and gently laid his hand against the back of his friend's neck, so that his fingertips brushed over the top of his collar. He said nothing, only stood there at a near enough proximity that he could see the darkness that had briefly clouded the normally bright gaze had vanished.

Inexplicably, Watson felt that together there was no wound that the other could not heal, that together there could be no chance of pain or damage.

Their friendship was as enduring as it was unique and in equal parts he and Holmes maintained it with evenly matched strength.

Watson's eyes twinkled for a moment. "Correspondingly, does that mean you would play at my wedding?"

Holmes tucked his violin beneath his chin and positioned his bow across the strings. "We only have a limited amount of miracles allotted to us, Watson. I would not waste your prayers on that. Now sit there and enjoy."

Miracles—a very strange, yet befitting thought.

The music was sweet and lyrical. Watson suspected it was one of Holmes' originals. It had a certain life to it, a pace as familiar as his own life beat. Certainly that wondrous sound must be a miracle and this time as well as many other times that the two of them had been spared from certain death and it seemed to him very many extras had already been granted to the two of them over time. Holmes once said that it is only goodness which gives extras and so we have much to hope from flowers. For a brief moment Watson despaired, for any flower will wilt in time, but perhaps…

Perhaps if Watson placed his faith in their friendship rather than in their mortal selves, there was hope to be had that their stash of miracles would not cease to grant them extras.

* * *

**Story Notes:**

_(1) When Holmes says, "Trust a scorpion to always act according to its nature" he is referring to the well known fable of the 'Scorpion and the Frog' where the scorpion convinces the frog to swim them across the river, but stings the frog halfway thereby drowning them both and his reason being that it was simply his nature. However, in another retelling of the story where it's a fox that the scorpion has cross the river, the scorpion's reason for stinging was "It is better that we should both perish rather than that my enemy should live", which Holmes says to Hopkins as a reference to his previous reference to Jerome._

_(2) 'Chairo' is the Spanish equivalent of the name Jerome (which originally derives from Greek) and Gregory Peterson was just a play-on-words or a reference to 'Peter's son', which would account for why Peter says, "I hate Peter" in chapter 5._

_(3) "That what gives extra…" quote taken from ACD's 'The Naval Treaty' _

**Author's Notes:**

_I would like to take this time to thank all you lovely reviewers for granting me 93 reviews all for six measly chapters and the worst update schedule ever conceived. Better late than never, right? But seriously, this the first full scale story I have every finished. Just look on my profile. None of my other larger works have ever been completed. The difference this time? __**All of you**__ and the massive fanbase of the Sherlock Holmes community who have offered support and given me the boost I needed to be compelled to finish this bad boy. Without you guys pretty much guilt tripping me every step of the way with your compliments, praise, and demands for more, this thing would have never gotten done. So thanks._

_And as a reward, if you just direct yourself to the bottom right of the screen there should be a button that will bring you to a little miracle extra of your own. Cheers! Now go clickety!_


	8. Epilogue

**~Epilogue~**

The man who entered the jailhouse possessed a captivatingly confident stride and nearly overwhelming sense of dominance over well, _everything_, that the guards, naturally conditioned towards subservience, practically bowed as they allowed him to the holding cell that had been requested for the occasion. He was but a schoolmaster, a professor, surely no one who should command such power and yet, it was unmistakable. Even in a prison full of caged and dangerous predators, he was an alpha, more cunning and devious than his merely violent brethren. When he tore into something it was with purpose and he wouldn't leave it until every last drop of blood had been wrung dry.

He stopped before the bars of the cell, looking down nose with a distinct air of boredom, even annoyance, like he already tired of the conversation yet to take place.

"Dear Peter, yet another suicide attempt, I see. This makes it—your what, sixth attempt?"

Peters slithered towards the bars directly in front of the man, slouching against them like the surly teenager he was, gripping the bars and hanging off them, revealing his obviously bandaged wrists. He pressed his cheek against the bars and smiled, his dimple showing between the iron slats. "Seven actually," he giggled, magnificently pleased that the other man had guessed wrong. "I swallowed a razorblade the other day. They won't keep me in here. They can't. They can't, I say!" he screams, rattling the bars.

Jerome rolls his eyes and casually gets up from the cot that has been affixed to the wall and pushes Peter aside, who falls dramatically and begins rolling on the floor before coming to a halt facing the wall where he goes still and quiets.

"What news?"

"Your whore is in the sanatorium, pronounced a raving loon." A corner of the man's lip upturns in an unpleasant sort of smile. "And I thought witch hunts had gone out of fashion."

Jerome clenched his fist and pounded it futilely against the bars, which didn't so much as budge as merely thunk as if to remind its captives that their sentence was not likely to be changed.

"It really is quite fortuitous that I left when I did. I don't fancy your accommodations at all. Although, had I remained, I assure you this travesty would not have occurred. However, I have come as you requested. What is it that you ask of me? Glad as I am to be rid of you—seeing as the competition against me has taken on a distinctly negative slope—I do owe you some modicum of deference for services rendered in the past. So ask. What do you desire of me?"

Jerome pressed his forehead against the bars, the shadows they cast doing nothing to hide the unfettered rage that lit his face. "I want you to destroy Sherlock Holmes."

The man nodded and briskly, turning on his heel to exit when Jerome's voice rang out and bounced against the stone, brick, and metal that surrounded them. "And when you inevitably fail at that Moriarty, I advise you kill him. Don't waste time in trying to make him suffer. The greatest injustice you can inflict on him is to simply be rid of him."

The man paused and threw his response casually over one shoulder. "_Professor_ Moriarty. Remember that name because soon, like Napoleon, everyone will know it and fear it, chant my name like a harbinger of death, starting with that amateur detective."

Peter's shrieking laughter sealed his vow unto death.

* * *

Watson dimly felt the tears slid across his face. He didn't know when they started, nor could he stop them. It felt like his soul was leaking and it burned all the way down his cheeks. It was agonizing, painful, raw, and devastating. It hurt to the very fibers of his being, those many threads that wove together and made him John Watson because inevitably so many of them were entwined with Holmes and he was gone. The man who was John Watson began to fray.

The falls were roaring, churning and it seemed like the pit of Hades itself where Watson could not follow, could not make himself whole again, no matter how much his heart fractured and tore from the pain of it.

_Is this what it felt like?_ Watson thought to himself, an agonized whisper in his near frozen brain. _Is this how he felt when he held that bullet in his hand and knew he would feel like that for the rest of his life? Oh Holmes, could I but turn back time and spare you this, I would. God, I would._

His bare hands—his gloves perplexingly absent—trembled the way they did in Afghanistan when the shouts and cries of war were replaced with the silence of the fallen. One hand jerkily slid upward over his breast, instinctively checking if the organ beneath was still beating.

It was. Despite it all, it was. Watson dropped his head and the pain that he was practically drenched with began to drip away, so excruciatingly slowly that it made no discernable difference, except that maybe twenty years from now he would be able to live with it. Someday, maybe the pain would be like his heartbeat. It would go on and on until the point he could feel nothing at all, but he would live. He would live.

For now, he could function and it would have to be enough. He stumbled away from the ledge, practically falling back onto the surrounding rocks.

Why had he been standing so close?

He decided he didn't want to know the answer as he wearily moved his hand to push himself back to his feet. He wasn't sure what aroused his instincts quicker, the brush of his fingers over the achingly familiar silver cigarette case or the sound of it beginning to slide down the boulder it had been set atop of and the immediate fear it stimulated of being lost over the falls. Either way, he had wrapped his numb fingers around the thing with a speed and energy he did not think himself capable of and brought it forward to examine it although he knew every detail by heart, its shapes, dents, and design probably better than his own. As he did, a small square of paper upon which it had lain fluttered down to the ground. He unfolded it, eyes quickly sweeping over the text.

Some distant part of him registered that his tears had ceased to flow.

There was no doubt that what he held between his still shaking hands was a letter of farewell from his friend. Only…

Between the pages of a discontinued printing of the, as of now, _Incomplete Works of Sherlock Holmes_ situated safely in Baker Street was Watson's own farewell letter, nestled safely next to that of Holmes'. They had placed them there together, had made a pact, a promise.

Watson stared at the paper in his hand and hoped, hoped again for the goodness that granted so many extras.

He hoped that somewhere Holmes was alive and the note in his hand was merely a warning to adhere to that promise and to wait a little longer to remove the envelope that bore his name.

Watson had faith and it was enough.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

_OMG, it's done! It's finally COMPLETE. Anyone else feeling a twinge of sadness? I'm so very sorry it took this long and I appreciate you guys' gracious patience. Thank you again to all my faithful readers, reviews, and returners. Longer thanks and appreciation can be found in the A/N in the previous chapter.  
_

_*IMPORTANT*  
I will have final reviewer responses and teasers for my__** FOUR (4)**__ upcoming fics, including my newest epic posted sometime between Monday night and Wednesday (depending on my reader response. If I think the majority of my readers have gotten a chance to read the final chapters of AiCB or if I merely become impatient, I'll post earlier accordingly). So yeah, if you want your reviewer response posted in the final 'Teaser Chapter', post by Sunday night or sometime on Monday, CA time. If you don't get your review in by that time, don't worry, i'll just PM your reply.  
_

_Love ya guys, love Holmes, love Watson. Thank you and Peace!  
_


	9. RR and Teaser Trailer

**A/N: **_Alright, thank you for tuning in one last time as well as the massive response I got from the conclusion of AiCB. You guys are just so good to me. Your reviews really do make my day and the reassurance of your continuing interest keeps me clackin' away at the 'ol keyboard._

_As a sort of mass reviewer response__: IT WAS SO A HAPPY ENDING! Watson may not have been fully certain, but at least he wasn't hardcore grieving like he would have in the original canon! BTW, if you still adamantly insist that it was a sad ending, blame your fellow reviewers because I remember earlier when I was receiving reviews for Ch.3 (the massive Holmes grieving chapter), a couple of people were saying that since I have the Holmes grief thing so down-pat, I should try my hand at Watson angst and I guess it just stuck with me, like a dare that kept nagging at my conscious and when I developed the epilogue, it sorta just snuck in there to prove once in for all I could do angst both ways. But seriously people, it was meant to be a happy ending…although my spectrum of emotions may be a little off. _

**Reviewer Responses (in order of appearance):**

**KylaRyan: **First reviewer! Massive brownie points for you. And although you were a late-comer, your enthusiasm has been much appreciated. Since you said you couldn't wait for more of my so-called "genius" (*smugly polishes knuckles on shirt*), here's some sneak peaks at my coming works.

**Eyebrows2:** Thank you for commenting on the classic "drawing room scene". I wanted the ending to be as true to Sherlock Holmes as possible and whereas I blasted the more modern-esque action scene in Ch.6, I wanted Ch.7 to be the classic Sherlock Holmes sit-down explanation/monologue of how f*cked the bad guys were from the start, proving that above all else, Holmes is one smart sonuvagun. And thank you for noticing the little details. Like Holmes says, it's the little details that make the difference between theory and reality. Way to pour in the guilt by the way with the comment that it took me two changes of season before I finished this thing, BTW. Lol, at least I made it right? And yes, Moriarty deserved to get bit in the irony ass. It gave me great pleasure to write it. As stated above, the Watson grief was something of a dare and I wanted an undeniable connection and contrast with the Holmes grief I had earlier. Glad it seemed to have translated.

**Blame the Cupcake:** Yeah, I have a penchant for secondary characters. For some reason, I end up developing them and loving them just as much as the main characters. Forcas and the gang are definitely going to make appearances in my later fics, although they're open for public use if you or any other fanfic writer would like to use their mercenary goodness. Mercs are just cool, like Han Solo cool, the anti-heros.

**XtinethePirate: **EXACTLY, it's a _happy_ ending. Watson semi-knows Holmes is alive. It's a big deal. I mean, he still faints like a big, cuddly sissy in EMPT, but still! The integration of the canon was a must for me. As a fanfic writer, it is my sworn duty to pay tribute to the original canon (in new and interesting ways that may or may not have ACD turning in his grave). I was thrilled to see your enthusiasm for my works jump from comm to comm. Makes me all happy inside, like monkeys jumping in pudding. I hope you stick around, I plan on sticking to this fandom a while yet. ^-^ Thanks for all the love!

**PeanutTree: **One of my newer readers, very nice to hear from you. YES! I induced tears. Mission accomplished. Admittedly, AiCB was one big undertaking in tear jerking. Glad you liked the last line (because invariably when it comes to my last line I've usually exhausted all literary creativity and just write whatever the hell comes to mind and pray it translates correctly).

**SherlockHolmesqueen4ever: **Moi, a talent for writing? My blushes. I hope you tune in to my various other upcoming works just to you know…um, check if the talent is still present? Haha, but seriously, thank you for the compliment.

**Orria:** Haha, you deserve a 'best fan ever' badge or something. I'm very glad you chose to follow along on this rollercoaster of OMG angst-fest from your very first stuttering wonder at if Watson was really dead. Lol, I remember feeling so evilly pleased at the start of this when no one was sure whether Watson was alive or not. *sighs* Oh, memories. But I do hope that your melancholy won't last very long. I've still got a lot to offer in ways of Sherlock Holmes fanfiction madness.

**reflekshun: **Definitely my star reviewer. I don't think there's anything I've wrote that you haven't made sure to comment on. Your steadfast loyalty has become as reliable as metronome, though no less appreciated for its frequency. Hope to see many more shining reviews from you and I do hope I continue to impress you and keep you coming back for more.

**KCS:** My most illustrious reviewer. I think my heart skips a beat every time I see your review pop up. Even though I still assert it was a happy ending, I'm definitely gratified to know you thought it was epic. I try. I plan to become an expert tear-jerker when I grow up and hope you stick around to enjoy the ride.

**Literatech:** Man, you've been in from the start. I'm glad to have lived up to expectations and that all my "touching moments" were duly noted by you and kept you loyal reader and reviewer. Delighted to have you and hope you check in to my other upcoming works (which I promise will contain even more "touching moments"). ^-^

**Miss Fenway:** My most dedicated reviewer. Haha, still get a kick out of your re-reviewing stunt and still very much flattered. Yes, despite statutes against allowing men to marry their cars, I give you full license to marry this story. Heh, don't feel shamed. I'm insane and spend waaayyyy too much time writing fanfic, you should be glad you don't write like me. And IT WAS A HAPPY ENDING! Watson semi-knows. That counts for _something_, right? But yeah, sorry if it came out a little sad. I have a thing for bittersweet endings. Next time, full happy ending, I swear.

**lemonpiefirefly: **Hell yes! That totally rocks that I got to be your secondary introduction into the Sherlock Holmes fanfiction community. SCORE! Although I will go out an recommend KCS and pretty much every story or author on her favorites list. Anyhoo, it was a very great pleasure to break your SH fanfic virginity. ACD may have made the legend, but it's a fanfic writer's job to write all the emotion he was missing. Hope you stick around the fanfic comm because we've all got a lot to offer.

**Savethellamas: **Another reviewer from the very start all of the fic—damn, was it that long?—six months ago. Massive Kutos, my friend. Short and late is waaayyyy better than never and well worth the reassurance that I wrote something that people were willing to follow despite my sin of _extremely_ late updates. Very glad the ending met your approval and hope to see you on later projects.

**medcat: **I was wondering where you had gone off to after you reviewed a while ago, but very glad you went ahead and review spammed me to make up for lost time. Holmes' reaming of Mr. Ellis was indeed quite the pleasure to write. I'm very glad so many things turned out "great". ^-^ I sincerely hope I can keep up the "great" work.

**~*AND NOW, ONTO THE LITERARY EQUIVALENT TO A TEASER TRAILER*~**

(All works that follow sometime during and after the completion of Infinite Universes)

* * *

**Title:** No Fortress So Strong

**Rating:** PG-T

**Genre:** AU – alternate universe

**Summary:** A spin-off/continuation of let-the-eli-in's AU, _To the Inevitable Dusk_. Brotherhood endures the rigors and strife of adulthood, wounded, but always emerging stronger for it.

**A/N:** All credit to the original concept goes to let-the-eli-in, who has graciously allowed me to continue on what she started, although my focus is primarily on the impact of their sibling relationship as adults rather than children. _Dusk_ is pretty much required reading (it's on my fav stories list for easy finding). Will consist primarily of two main stories which will then dissolve into a drabble series.

**Teaser:**

"_When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life_." –Antisthenes

Story 1- Sherlock learns the price of arrogance when his first venture into London crime solving leads to devastating results.

Story 2- The Holmes brothers' reaction to John joining the army.

* * *

**Title:** Of Mice and Men

Rating: K+

**Genre:** Crossover with Basil of Baker Street by Eve Titus (the inspiration for The Great Mouse Detective)

**Summary:** In which the adventures and tails of Holmes, Watson, and their two familiars Basil and Dawson, are recorded.

**A/N:** A spin-off series continuing from Ch.18 of my Infinite Universes story, originally a GMD crossover. I have planned for a collection of four one-shots, although when I do post the story it will be with the first chapter being what I had from Ch.18 of Infinite Universes.

* * *

(An older work I had in mind, but which I mainly abandoned after writing my Infinite Universes piece. I was planning on writing both a slash and non-slash version, though I may write only one of those, not sure. Definitely something on the backburners.)

**Title:** The Guardian (Who will Guard the Gaurdians?)

_Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? _-Plato

**Rating:** T

**Genre:** Supernatural AU (and slash, if the case may be)

**Summary:** Watson is a Guardian. Holmes is his charge. Together they overcome many dangers in this world, but the one thing that could destroy him resides in both their hearts and the undeniable pull between them.

**A/N:** What I wanted to do with this was to, simply put, create an alternate universe, meaning I wanted to tell the exact same ACD story with one simple little twist that changes the face, but not the core of the entire mythos.

**Side note:** If you don't like slash, don't worry, the differences between the slash and non-slash versions are monumental. In fact, they have almost entirely different storylines, only sharing the same AU aspect, which is actually different conceptually as well…so yeah.

**Teaser:**

**~*~**

"_Anyone can be an angel." -Author Unknown_

Watson revealed his true form to Holmes only three times. Once to save his life. The second time because he asked. The third, because it was the last.

Holmes was only surprised during that pivotal first occasion.

* * *

(My next—incredibly ambitious—full scale project…I hope)

**Title:** The Princeling Apprentice

**Rating:** T

**Genre**: AU – alternate universe

**Timeline:** Nine years after the three year Hiatus.

**Summary:** Almost ten years ago, Sherlock Holmes returned from the grave only to disappear once more following the tragic death of his friend and colleague, Dr. John Watson (who succeeded his wife by only two years). When, haunted and weary, the great detective is forced to turn his focus to London once again, it is with even greater difficulty than he anticipated. Watson's memory wasn't the only thing he left behind, but his son and Holmes' legal ward.

**A/N:** Anyone else read _The Beekeeper's Apprentice_ and felt the need to vomit? Yeah, I did because I just COULD NOT STAND the main character and was freaked out by the absence of Watson from Holmes' life during his retirement and within this dual amount of disgust my mind was sent a-whirring and came up with this new insanity as a kind of solution.

**Teaser: **

**~*~**

Baker Street was the same as he remembered.

Just as he feared it would.

His brother was explaining something, something monumentally important, but he couldn't focus, couldn't think while awash with the imperative compulsion to specify the minute differences in the strikingly present though minute traces of his own strong shag and Watson's ship's tobacco. It was the small details that allowed him to ignore the much bigger one, the most glaring detail of all.

"Sherlock, have you been listening to a word I just said?"

Holmes swung his head to lay his piercing stare upon his brother. "Yes, due to the intrinsic properties of sound waves, I did indeed hear all."

Mycroft, unfazed by the glare his brother had been cultivating since the tender age of six, raised his brow. "But the question is, did you comprehend any of it?"

"Of course I did, I'm Sherlock Holmes," he said, raising his hands with a slight flourish and a wide smile. It would have merely been humorous if his tone hadn't been laced with a certain bitterness.

Mycroft awarded his brother's performance with a stony silence.

Holmes immediately dropped his affected smile and momentary bravado, his features settling back into the drawn and serious expression he had adopted for the last ten years, turning his face once more towards the window while he spoke. "I will consider the case, but as for the other matter—"

"He isn't as naturally talented as you and I were, but he is bright and at an early enough age that we can take advantage of that in the following years and condition him into becoming a formidable investigator."

"The last time I checked, children were not dogs to be trained or pawns to be manipulated, even by your meticulous planning, brother mine," Holmes replied, a hint of steel in his voice.

Mycroft's brows arched once more, this time in faint amusement. "Even I am subjected to the universe's machinations, Sherlock. The boy has been expelled from his current school and as it is barely a month before the summer holiday, it is unlikely he can be admitted anywhere else. He needs somewhere to stay until the start of the new term and tutored." Mycroft Holmes with his all-seeing eyes and his decided ignorance of scruples that normally plagued the average person, allowed him to easily select and jab at the chink in his younger brother's armor. "If you will not do it for me or for yourself, then do it for Watson. He named _you_ as the boy's legal guardian."

Holmes kept his face resolutely turned towards the sitting room windows, though he closed them briefly as he gathered his thoughts.

"What's the boy's name?"

"Thaddeus, named for the chivalrous actions of the more honorable one of the infamous Sholto's. You are aware of that particular case, I assume. It also happens to be the name of his maternal great-grandfather. Your first act as legal guardian will invariably be to locate your errant ward. When I went to pick him up from school, he and his things, what little he does own, were gone. He left me this."

Holmes finally redirected his attention back to his brother and the note he held. Holmes took it, glancing over the lines, though his face, or at least the intimate knowledge between siblings, betrayed his shock.

Mycroft smiled as he lit his cigar. "Yes, the boy possesses a rather considerable talent for forgery, which incidentally has led to his current predicament."

"'_Uncle Mycroft_,'" Holmes read, attempting to mask his initial shock with the obvious look of disdain he shot towards his brother.

Mycroft merely shrugged and replied, "You were absent. It was my duty to make appearances."

"'_This school was becoming dull anyways. Cheers_,'" Holmes paused, perhaps a heartbeat longer than necessary, "signed, J.H.W."

"Well you didn't expect a boy of eleven to keep a name like Thaddeus, did you?"

"Jude," Holmes breathed, the deduction coming nearly instantaneously. "Jude Holmes Watson."

~*~

_Very small note: Jude and Thaddeus are apparently equivalent names. Anyone excited yet?_


End file.
